


We All Have A Hunger

by MzMinola



Series: Change the Fates' Design [1]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Abuse, Ace spectrum character, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Dragons, Gen, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Queerphobia, Rape Culture, Reproductive Issues, Sexism, Slow Burn, Trauma, a story in three acts, cultural dissonance, neurodiverse characters, nonstandard family structures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 159,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23378104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MzMinola/pseuds/MzMinola
Summary: Surrounded by elders who deny the return of Thread yet refuse to change any of their ancient traditions, the young people of Benden Weyr struggle to find purpose and respect during Pern’s Eighth Interval.
Series: Change the Fates' Design [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681414
Comments: 429
Kudos: 131





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _Dragonriders of Pern_ has noncon/dubcon baked into the worldbuilding, and this story explores the resulting problems, along with the sexual violence in Fax’s territories alluded to in _Dragonflight_.
> 
> The reproductive issues are for dragon characters, but as the dragons are a sentient species psychically bonded to humans, I felt it appropriate to tag for.  
> Cast list, lexicon, and canon quotes that informed this fic will be posted as a separate entry soon.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta readers alexmaybe and [C](https://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com/).

**Benden Weyr, Pern, Rukbat System, Late in the Eighth Interval, approximately two decades before the Ninth Pass.**

~

Omoriel’s hiccupping, panicked wails echo around the auxiliary infirmary, careening off the stone walls to rattle down Junpei’s spine. The noise feels more real than anything else in the infirmary. Junpei’s father is paying attention to him for once, patting a comforting hand on his uninjured shoulder, saying things like “you did well, exactly as you should” and “your dragon’s egg just hasn’t been laid yet” but the words can’t find purchase in the spiky mass of _rejection_ and _unwanted_ pulsing in his chest.

“There’s so few bronzes,” R’gul says, almost to himself. “I thought that your brother…” He shakes his head with a sigh.

Junpei swallows hard; he’s almost thirteen Turns old, not ten like Omoriel. He only cried a little on the sands of the Hatching Ground, clutching his bleeding arm, before it was all over and the blueriders were allowed to escort the unImpressed boys away. His arm is slathered in numbweed now, stitched, bandaged. He doesn’t need to cry anymore. He _shouldn’t_. He has to set a good example.

If Esme were here, she’d say something to keep R’gul from noticing how close Junpei is to crying too. Esme’s never scared of saying the wrong thing, never gets lost in her own head trying to find the right answer, not like Junpei.

“You’re numbed up now, stop fussing,” Jelally snaps. Omoriel only wails louder, making R’gul and Junpei both wince. Sanra, who’s older and more patient than Jelally, just strokes Omoriel’s hair and pulls a blanket up to his chin.

“Green for sure, that one,” R’gul murmurs, again more to himself. “If he’s still here then.” Junpei ducks his head at those words; if Omoriel ages out of candidacy before the next clutch, Junpei will too. R’gul seems to realize this, squeezing Junpei’s shoulder and saying, “He might want to go home now, is all. Your dragon will be in the next clutch.” He squeezes harder. “I’m sure of it.”

Junpei wants to stay in the infirmary; he’s been looking out for Omoriel since the younger boy arrived as a fosterling from a middle-sized hold in Lemos last Turn. It feels wrong to leave him when he’s upset. But R’gul is nothing if not proper, and if you’re capable of going to the Hatching Feast, then you go.

_Proper_ does not include checking on all of your children, though. The instant they reach the dining cavern, R’gul deposits Junpei at the nearest table of other unImpressed boys, not even asking if he wants to find his pat-sibs. As R’gul strides off to the table his wingseconds have claimed he doesn’t even spare a glance for his oldest son Rally, or either of his daughters. Junpei watches for a moment, throat tight and eyes burning, as his father walks away from him like all of the dragon hatchlings did not even an hour ago.

Then he pushes it all down and sits; today is a happy day. All of the eggs hatched. All of the hatchlings Impressed.

The newly Impressed boys get back from feeding their hatchlings before Junpei can leave. They stagger into the dining cavern in waves, baby dragons settled in the weyrling barracks to sleep. Each small batch of boys coming in from the Bowl gets greeted with a burst of applause, whistles, and congratulatory shouting. Junpei can’t help running through their names as they arrive, breaking them up, wondering what contractions they’ll decide on, even the ones who already chose, daringly whispering them in the dorms before the Hatching.

Half of the unImpressed candidates have red on their white wool robes from lacerations as they were pushed aside, but the successful candidates’ robes are splattered with gore across the chests, from feeding pre-chopped-up raw meat to the hatchlings. It reminds Junpei of Omoriel’s robes, drenched in blood because he hadn’t just been knocked aside, but knocked down and _stepped on_. He’d been lucky the claw-tips landed on his shoulder, not his lungs.

It’s too loud in here and too far from the infirmary for any noise to carry, but Omoriel’s anguished wails won’t leave Junpei’s head.

Looking away from the weyrlings would be rude. Faranth knows he’s been scolded enough for looking away from adults lecturing him, noticing or thinking of things that pull his attention away like the wind pulls a kite. Junpei smiles at the new weyrlings’ faces, keeping his eyes away from their gorey chests. Fallarnon smiles back and drags Famanoran over to Junpei’s table. Shells. He didn’t want that. He just meant to be polite. He didn’t want both the Weyrleader’s sons sitting with him.

Fortunately, almost everyone else at the table is talking enough that Junpei doesn’t have to. Fallarnon is F’lar now, and more than happy to tell everyone about bronze Mnementh. Junpei focuses on eating one-handed until he notices F’lar looking at him seriously.

“You’ll Impress next time,” F’lar says, sounding even more confident than R’gul had. He nods when Junpei just blinks. “Brown. You’re steady. You can be my wingsecond with F’nor.”

_No_ , Junpei thinks. _Never_. Fallarnon gets on Junpei’s nerves all the time. Bossy, arrogant, hot-headed. It doesn’t help that people are always comparing them to each other, and to Famanoran (F’ran? F’nor? He said it and now Junpei can’t remember), since they’re all bronzeriders’ sons.

“Thanks,” Junpei says out loud, the perfectly neutral tone that he perfected when the grown-ups had started complimenting him by insulting his mother. F’lar’s a bronzerider too, now. He’s going to be a wingleader once he’s done training.

Maybe even Weyrleader someday.

It’s best to be polite.

~

With an injured arm, Junpei’s taken off the chore roster. His siblings aren’t, and he’s not seeing them much outside chores right now either. Rally’s always busy, so much older, with his own friends. Gullers is still ghosting around the back tunnels, avoiding everyone in the Weyr. Esme _would_ be with Junpei, since they’re young enough for afternoon lessons after morning chores. She’s made a game out of keeping the grown-ups fooled for Turns now, elbowing him when a question’s coming, whispering teaching ballad lyrics from the corner of her mouth, flashing answers in Telgar hand-sign when Weyrsinger C’gan’s back is turned.

But Weyrsinger C’gan has just been declared Weyrlingmaster, too. Afternoon lessons are in disarray as the grown-ups scramble to decide how much time he can spend on each duty, and how much one of the Lower Caverns women can do instead.

So Junpei spends the strange free time in the senior weyrfolks’ cavern. It’s nice. He hadn’t gotten to come here as often as he liked, once the grown-ups started tasking him with looking after younger kids, and it’s nice to just sit with his grandfather B’sur’s arm around him, listening to the old aunties and uncles chatter. Omoriel leans against Junpei’s side, relieved from his shorter list of chores too. Between the two of them, Junpei would be the most comfortable person in all of Benden Weyr if it weren’t for his injury.

“You want to hear another Clever Reiko story?” B’sur asks. Junpei nods; he’ll never get tired of stories about his mother. How she convinced her father’s blue dragon to take her flying alone. How she outwitted a dozen conmen at a Bitran Gather. How she arranged for transport to Southern Boll behind the Weyrleader’s back, when her oldest son wanted to become a weaver.

B’sur is the only person to tell that last story proudly, instead of angrily. Junpei’s mat-brother Kenta was still young enough to Impress when they left. Even friendly Weyrleader F’lon is reluctant to let potential candidates leave the Weyr permanently. But Kenta insisted, and Reiko supported her son. She talked a sympathetic greenrider into visiting all the major holds and crafthalls in one day, in a random order, so that the green dragon wouldn’t remember _where_ her passengers had dismounted at, and thus be unable to accidentally let word slip.

Junpei and B’sur know Kenta’s an apprentice weaver now, that Reiko planned to take up the craft as well. No one else knows for sure what craft Kenta was interested in, let alone where they’ve gone. B’sur’s very careful to only think of _their new home_ , so his elderly blue dragon won’t pick up the destination. Loroth loves his rider’s daughter and grandchildren, but dragons are not good at secrets.

Today B’sur tells a funny story from Reiko’s teenage Turns, when she ran around finding out all of her friend’s crushes so she could rearrange the chore roster to get them all time off at a Gather with each other. When B’sur finishes, one of the retired greenriders says it reminded him of a romantic song from his youth, and starts singing. He’s forgotten half the lyrics, and two other retired riders and an ancient Lower Cavern worker start coming up with new ones. They’re very creative, and haven’t bothered censoring themselves in decades; Junpei’s ears burn.

Omoriel just looks confused at all the double-entendres and dirty rhymes. He’s been sticking close to Junpei since the Hatching, burrowing up Junpei’s winter shawl to hide the instant a grown-up so much as utters the word “home” or “leave”, no matter the context.

“You’ve got a decade before you’re too old to Impress,” Junpei tries to reassure him. “A queen’s _never_ gone that long without rising, they won’t send you away when there’s still a chance for you.”

There probably isn’t a chance for Rally, though, so Junpei’s not surprised when his seventeen-Turn-old pat-brother gathers him and their two pat-sisters up to talk in a storage cavern, and says he’s being escorted to the Harper Hall by the Weyrleader himself.

“You’re not even twenty,” Gullers says sullenly. She’d gotten all the way to age seven before finding out girls weren’t allowed to Impress anything but gold, and still holds a grudge at fourteen. A month after they both Stood on the sands, this is the first time she’s talked to Rally or Junpei. “It could still happen.”

“Mom’ll make sure someone drags me back if Nemorth rises,” Rally says, shrugging.

“She’s _got_ a dragonrider son, she doesn’t need _two_ ,” Gullers says. Rally’s older mat-brother A’jellan Impressed a brown dragon almost nine Turns ago, at a Hatching Junpei can barely remember. That had never been good enough for A’jellan and Rally’s mother Jelally, though, and no one was more frustrated than her that none of the four new bronzes chose Rally.

Rally grins at Gullers. “So I shouldn’t go because I’ve got a chance, but Mom shouldn’t make me Stand either?” Gullers just glares, and Rally softens the grin a little. “Come on. C’gan’s taught you just as much about music as me. You wanna come learn harping with me, Gullers? Weyrleader F’lon says the Masterharper’s always looking for girls with good voices.”

“No.” Gullers crosses her arms. “I want to be a _smith_. But they’re all _men_.”

“So are harpers,” Junpei points out. They’ve heard these conversations before, as older weyrbrats grew up. The young men get encouraged to find craft halls, to lessen the sting of being unchosen by _choosing_ a craft...while their sisters just get chided that the Weyr’s better than any Hold or Craft Hall anyway, why would you want to leave? Only the Healers and Weavers take women apprentices. Even the Harper Hall only officially trains women to be singers, instead of the teachers, historians, and mediators that full harpers are.

“You could marry a smith,” Esme teases, giggling when Gullers turns the glare on her. It _was_ possible to learn a Craft you weren’t raised in by marrying a journeyman or master crafter. Learn all the skills, do all the work, and never be granted the formal title.

“Fuck that,” Gullers says. “And fuck you too.”

“Language,” Rally says automatically. Gullers flips him off without uncrossing her arms, but looks a little chagrined. Esme’s the youngest of all of them, born a few months after Junpei, and despite all the teasing Gullers usually tries to keep a better reign on her temper around her.

“Do _you_ wanna be a singer?” Rally asks Esme.

“That’d only annoy R’gul,” Esme says cheerfully. “I wanna annoy _all_ my dads.”

“I’ll miss you,” Rally says fondly. He ruffles Esme’s hair, then turns towards Junpei. “I guess I should ask—”

“I’m not leaving Grandfather,” Junpei says quietly. Rally snaps his mouth shut. “And the Weyrleader wouldn’t agree anyway.”

“...if you really wanted to—” 

“He can’t fly with Loroth anymore,” Junpei says, even more quietly. There’s an uncomfortable silence. The only sign of age dragons show is a little greying around their muzzles, but riders have so many. Creaking joints, weakened grips, trouble remembering their destinations.

“Shells, stop making me sad,” Esme says, and shoves Junpei’s mostly-healed arm hard enough to knock him into Gullers, and then all four of them are hugging, crying, and making promises to stay in touch that they know they can’t keep.

Weyrleader F’lon and bronze Simanith take Rally to the Harper Hall in the morning. If Rally told their father first, or if R’gul notices his absence and asks Weyrleader F’lon where his son’s gone, none of them ever know, because R’gul never speaks of Rally again.


	2. Act One, Candidacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AIVAS Adjusted Turn 2493, Autumn.

A little after Junpei had turned thirteen, the world suddenly slowed down, and his growth spurts sped up. Esme stopped elbowing him during lessons and whispering teaching ballad lyrics into his ear, and started passing on gossip instead. She never stopped using him as an arm-rest, though, which meant by the time they were both eighteen she’d gotten _really_ good at calculating distances to leap off furniture and hang off his back.

“That new kid’s staying.” Esme propped her elbows up on Junpei’s shoulders, batting his braid to the side. He could hear whatever box of tithed goods she was standing on rock on the uneven floor. “He got really tense when the Headwoman tried to say we don’t do Search anymore, but when he realized Sanra offering to foster him was just a formality so he could stay, he calmed right down. I think he’s our age.”

“Mm,” Junpei said, the intonation meaning _thanks, Esme._ He turned his attention back to the boxes of supplies needing sorting, expecting her to run off. Esme just dug her elbows harder into his shoulder, dropping her chin onto one hand, and kept talking.

“Do you think a dragonman telling you you’ve got the sense counts as a Search? Or does it gotta be when we’re officially looking? Some bluerider told him about it at a Gather when he was, like, seven, and then Turns later he finally heard the _whole_ Charter from some harper and showed up here ‘cause of that bit that says if you get Searched you got a _right_ to come to the Weyr, no matter what anyone else wants for you.” Esme flopped her other arm down to point out a barrel by the wall. “That’s got a crack in it.”

“I know,” Junpei said. He’d put that barrel closest to the door of the supply room, away from the others. There wasn’t anything he could do about bad tithes beyond making sure the women running the Lower Caverns knew. Couldn’t change anything until he Impressed.

“Hope it’s not wet. There was a wet grain bag last month. Tithes from the Western Holds are shittier enough this Turn they can’t blame it on travel conditions.” Esme sounded thoughtful, and Junpei saw her drum her fingers against her cheek from the corner of his eye. She’d helped unload it all, making sure to get the first look at every tithing train that rolled in. “But it’s still the right _amount._ Betting pool’s starting on whether the Headwoman’s gonna tell the Council that or not, once the Craft Halls send theirs.”

“Bad bet.”

“Yeah, I know, and so’s whether the Council will _do_ anything once she tells ‘em.”

Junpei tilted his head to the side, away from Esme’s chin, re-counting. Where was…? Oh. “Esme, you’re on the dried fish.”

“Whoops,” Esme said, completely unsorry, and patted his head before jumping down. Voices echoed down the main tunnel, prompting Esme to skitter off down one of the narrower, unlit ones, taking her gossip with her. A moment later, as Junpei slid the box of dried fish into the right row, Sanra peered around the archway.

“Oh, good, you’re still here.” Junpei turned around to wait politely as Sanra waved the stranger who’d come with the latest tithing train into the room. “Junpei, this is Chojohrnen. The Headwoman’s asked me to foster him, and your dorm has an empty bed. When you’re done here…?” Junpei nodded, getting a grateful smile from Sanra, and she leaned to the side to pat Chojohrnen’s arm as she left. “He’ll get you settled, then, and we’ll get you properly on the chore roster by tomorrow.”

Chojohrnen nodded too, half watching Sanra as she slipped back out into the tunnel, and half watching Junpei. “Have you eaten?” Junpei asked.

Chojohrnen’s small, polite smile turned into a surprised grin. He had a long, jagged scar down his left cheek that stretched with the expressions, and short, choppy brown hair that half hid his eyes. “I could stand to eat, but this looks half-done...?” His accent wasn’t familiar, so he probably wasn’t from the Eastern Claw or Midlands, but it’d be a miracle if he’d gotten here from the Western Claw. The trading caravans all talked a little differently from everyone else, though, so maybe that was it.

Used to much younger kids suddenly realizing how very far away breakfast had been, Junpei pulled a cheese-stuffed breadroll from his pocket, and tossed it to Chojohrnen. The grin got even bigger, in the split second before he shoved the breadroll into his mouth. “Th’nks!”

Junpei sorted the last few boxes while Chojohrnen ate, leaving them in neat rows on the floor.

“You don’t want them shelved?” Chojohrnen asked, licking crumbs off his thumb. He adjusted the travelling pack slung over one dusty shoulder with his other hand, but didn’t set it down. 

“No point,” Junpei said, nudging the cracked barrel with his toe. “Gotta take this to Ellenra. She’ll want to check the rest herself. You want to take the main tunnel, or learn the back ways first?”

Chojohrnen shot him a sharp look as Junpei hoisted the barrel onto his shoulder. “I’m not getting pranked my first day here, thanks. Whichever’s better lit.”

“I don’t prank people,” Junpei said, and nodded towards the main tunnel, which itself was only lit with half-dead glows, the fresh full ones saved for chambers and caverns. “Some of the others might, but most’ll just tease you and try to feed you packs of lies about weyrlife.”

“Oh, I’ve heard all _that_ ,” Chojohrnen said, following Junpei down the sandy-floored tunnel. “If you don’t appease the dragons with a monthly orgy they eat you. The Weyrwoman is the only women here and everyone who’s not a dragonrider is a man in drag. _Everyone_ here is a woman and the dragonriders cut off their tits to fly better. Baby dragons are more dangerous than adults and maim the candidates—”

“That last one’s true,” Junpei said, and heard Chojohrnen stumble.

“ _What?_ ”

“They don’t mean to hurt anyone,” Junpei said. He shifted the barrel to his other shoulder. It hadn’t leaked anything yet, which was a good sign. “You’ve seen foals stumble around, right?” Junpei only had at Gathers; the Weyr had no need of runnerbeasts, and even the herdbeasts they fed to the dragons were the farmholders’ grown cullings. “Imagine that, with big kitten-claws, desperately searching for someone.”

“Oh.” Chojohrnen was silent for a moment, and then, very quietly asked, “Do they kill anyone?”

“There’s some winter-fire stories about it,” Junpei said. “But nothing in living memory, nothing in the records, and we take precautions.” He wasn’t supposed to go in the Records Room, but if Chojohrnen mentioned it to anyone, he could say B’sur told him once, before passing. The adults should just be happy the new candidate hadn’t gotten scared off the Hatching sands.

“...and the grown dragons?” Chojohrnen asked.

“They—” Running feet coming around the bend. Chojohrnen pressed himself against the wall out of the way before Junpei could tell him to; probably _was_ holdbred, then, despite the trading caravan clothes. Recognizing the gait, Junpei squeezed his eyes shut and slapped his free hand over Chojohrnen’s.

“Hey!” Chojorhnen shoved his hand off just as Omoriel raced past.

“HiJunpei! ByeJunpei!” His swift footsteps turned down one of the side tunnels. Probably the one that let out near the lake.

“You said no pranks!” Chojohrnen hissed angrily, shoving Junpei’s shoulder. He almost dropped the barrel.

“Sorry. Reflex.” Junpei hesitated. It was better to find out earlier than later if new fosterlings could keep secrets, but if Chojohrnen _couldn’t_...no, better not risk it. He kept walking; the bend Omoriel had come around would take them to the Bowl. It would’ve been quicker to take the straight path to the kitchen cavern, but who knew how long they’d be stuck indoors once they got there. “Grown dragons are very careful around humans,” Junpei said, and ignored the frustrated noise Chojohrnen made at the switch back to that topic. “They’d be upset at the thought of hurting someone. So feel free to horrify the riders with rumors you’ve heard, but don’t mention them around the _dragons_.”

“Noted,” Chojohrnen said dryly. He paused when they got outside, tilting his head up to take the sheer height of the Bowl walls in, whistling. “Whew! Glad we didn’t have to hike _over_ all that!”

“Lake,” Junpei said, pointing it out, and then beyond it. “Herdbeast corrals, feeding pens. Weyrling barracks.”

The Bowl pinched in on the northern side, which meant the northeastern placement of the barracks put them almost out of sight from this spot on the southwestern wall. Chojohrnen shaded his eyes to peer across the Bowl. “Is that the dorms?”

“No, we’re weyrbrats, not weyrlings,” Junpei explained. He gestured to the northwestern face. “Lots of places we’re not allowed in over there, the Headwoman will give you a tour later. _We’re_ over here.” He tilted his head to the left, towards the long lines of laundry drying in the autumn sun. “Main cavern’s just past there, and the kitchens—”

“We don’t have to go through the kitchens to get to the dorms, do we?” Chojohrnen asked, flinching.

“...no, but I do need to get this to Ellenra.” Junpei drummed his fingers on the barrel. “What’s wrong?”

“This place is _big_ ,” Chojohrnen said, still looking around the Bowl. “Bigger than the Major Holds, even, and they’ve all got those huge spits that need canines for turning. And I can’t, uh, I can’t—”

“No canines in the Weyr.”

“...really?”

“Scared of dragons,” Junpei explained, shrugging, and Chojohrnen perked right up, smiling wondrously. “We’ve just got little felines to hunt pests. You allergic?”

“Felines are fine,” Chojohrnen said hastily, still smiling. He swept an arm towards the laundry lines. “Lead the way!”

Ellenra cussed up a storm when Junpei handed her the cracked barrel, took it without even noticing Chojohrnen standing there, and spun around to gather up the other bakers and investigate the rest of the tithe goods.

“Hey,” Luceel said, before they could leave.“Did you see where Omoriel went?”

“No, didn’t see, sorry,” Junpei said, and hoped Luceel didn’t hear the soft _ah-ha!_ noise Chojohrnen made.

Luceel _did_ notice, but fortunately was distracted by his newness. “Who’s this?”

“Sanra’s new fosterling.”

“Huh, taller than Esme said.” But still half a head shorter than Junpei. “Well, better show him the dorm quick, before Berroth rises. D’rees’s been biting our heads off all morning.”

“I have _not!_ ” the greenrider yelled angrily from the sinks. Luceel rolled her eyes.

“Do me a favor and bring the laundry in when you’re done?” she asked, reaching up to pat Junpei’s shoulder. He nodded.

They stopped at the linen store room for bedding on the way to the dorm, and Junpei pointed out the tunnels that lead to necessaries and the bathing chambers. The dorm itself was far enough inside the walls of the Weyr that they didn’t often hear greens shriek, but Junpei still felt the sudden wave of lust and longing roll over them.

“Guess that rumor’s true,” Chojohrnen said in a tense voice. His hands clenched around the bundle of linens, his travelling pack already stashed under the bunk. “Hell of a feeling.”

“I’ll leave—”

“I can ignore it!” Chojohrnen snapped. He started getting the bunk set up. There were three double-bunks in this dorm, the only empty one a lower bunk, so he hadn’t needed to climb at all to get it set. “If _you_ need to leave— or I guess need _me_ to leave, since this is your dorm—”

“It’s easier to ignore if you grew up with it,” Junpei said. There hadn’t been any surprise about the feeling, when the mating flights first started affecting Junpei. A little confusion as he grew older and noticed most people _weren’t_ happier when it struck during chores, weren’t happy about having a solid reason to ignore it. But no surprise. “But you do get used to it. Nobody’s going to judge you for vanishing the first few times it happens.”

“Fuck that!” Chojohrnen threw the bare pillows and their cases down on the sheets. “I’ve been pushed around by _way_ too many dicks to let my _own_ call the shots. There’s laundry to do, right? Okay. Let’s go.”

“...if you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Junpei stepped back out of the dorm. There were hardly any proper doors in the Weyr, but the dorms at least had heavy embroidered cloths hanging over the entrances; he shouldered past it so his shaking hands wouldn’t show. They’d have to go through the main cavern again if they weren’t taking unlit back tunnels, but if they walked fast enough they shouldn’t get any offers of company. Everyone was _supposed_ to keep working when the greens rose, but it was one of the few things you wouldn’t get in trouble for shirking chores for. Especially if it was a rider who lost the flight hitting on you.

Riders didn’t hit on Junpei. They flirted with his sisters, and some of the other candidates, but they all assumed Junpei wasn’t interested, so they didn’t bother. And he wasn’t. Okay, so a Turn and a half ago right after the Spring Games he’d suddenly noticed F’lar was handsome, and muscular, and that maybe it _did_ make sense that girls wanted to kiss the smirk off his face. That didn’t mean Junpei was _interested_. F’lar was just as much of a jerk as he’d been when they were kids.

“Fresh air, thank the _Winds_ ,” Chojohrnen said once outside. He stretched his arms over his head, then shook them out in a circle, following Junpei from sandy ground, to dusty, to grass. “Fifteen Turns in a hold and two on the road, you’d think I’d be more used to stone than sky.”

“It took you two Turns to get here?” Junpei asked.

“No, I…” Chojohrnen trailed off. Junpei glanced over, saw that he was frowning. “That was a. Um. That was a recent decision. There was a harper.” He bit the last words off like he regretted saying anything. Junpei swallowed his curiosity, another thing he was good at ignoring, and didn’t ask any more.

They reached the laundry lines and, as one, realized they’d forgotten baskets.

“I’m not going back in there,” Chojohrnen said, throwing up his hands.

“We could...fold everything as we get it down, and pile it all on one towel?” Junpei suggested.

“And get that one covered in grass?” Chojohrnen wrinkled his nose. The laundry lines stood far enough from the Lower Cavern entrances to be on grass, not scoured ground, to keep too much dust from blowing on them.

“If we put it all away fast we can throw the grassy one in our dorm’s laundry to re-wash.”

None of the adults noticed them coming back in with armloads of linens after the wave of mating flight lust had worn off. One of the felines did though, and followed them all the way down the tunnel meowing curiously until they stopped at the supply closet and she could sniff out all of the new smells Chojohrnen had brought with him. He sat down to make friends with the feline while Junpei got everything onto the right shelves, meowing back quietly and scratching her tiny skull.

~

Chojohrnen spent his first few days at Benden Weyr in a confused whirlwind as his official foster mother Sanra (shells, hearing her called that was weird) and other Lower Cavern workers quizzed him on skills and jammed him into the chore schedule.

“How are you with kids?” Sanra asked first thing, once the laundry was away, drawing him over to a sour-mouthed woman near the sinks.

“No experience, sorry,” Chojohrnen said. Sanra sighed, but didn’t seem surprised.

“Women’s work where you’re from, boy?” the sour-mouthed woman surmised. Chojohrnen didn’t answer. Lots of places around Pern divided jobs up differently than home had. He always tried to learn the divisions as quickly as he could; doing local women’s work on accident, or mentioning that you knew how, was the surest way to out yourself as a stranger. That was bad enough his few months of hold-hopping, already on thin ice showing up without anyone vouching for him, refusing to say his hold of origin in case word got back to his father.

It was worse at the Gathers and little isolated holds the Traders visited, if he got too far from the caravan itself and lost that thin protection.

Strangers drew the attention of Fax’s bullies.

No one wanted that.

“He could just be the youngest from a cot-hold, Jelally, don’t jump to conclusions,” Sanra said. Right on the nose, that guess. He hoped she didn’t bother guessing about anything else. She patted his arm again; he had a feeling that was going to happen a lot. “How are you with farmwork?”

“That, I can do,” Chojohrnen said quickly, and ignored Jelally muttering “ _we’ve too many useless farmboys already_ ,” under her breath. His answer got him an afternoon of raking out herdbeast shelters and re-strawing them. The pens and shelters were all the way across the Bowl from the main caverns, fortunately, so he got the chance to spend more time outdoors.

And doing _that_ got him his first chance to see a clue that the poor harper the Traders had smuggled out of Ogren minehold had been _right_ about the Weyr. About their acceptance of queers, at least. He wasn’t so sure the man’s songs about daring heroics and inhumane self-sacrifice had, well, _any_ basis in reality. If they had, wouldn’t dragonriders have rescued the harper themselves, instead of Traders doing it?

Chojohrnen walked out of the toolshed with a rake just in time to see Rishall, his partner for this chore, kissing another young woman. In plain sight of the older women wrangling herdbeasts from grazing pen to dragon feeding pen. And nobody shouting.

Huh.

Chojohrnen pretended not to have seen; there was acceptance, and then there was gawking. Rishall noticed him walking over, sent him back inside for a second rake for herself, and then told him to stick to her left side or use hand-sign if they needed to talk. Didn’t say a single thing about the woman she’d kissed, who was now busy with a toolbox and an apparent grudge against some broken fencing.

The rest of that first sevenday saw Chojohrnen doing laundry, dishes, still-room work, cooking, sorting in the supply rooms, mending, chicken-minding, and too many other tasks to remember.

When the adults weren’t quizzing him, the children and other teens pestered him with nosy questions during chores, meals, _and_ free time. Most fosterlings, he quickly gathered, arrived a-dragonback; younger sons from crowded holds, boys who didn’t look enough like their mothers’ husbands, craftborn boys that weren’t inclined towards the family work but not sure of what they _were_ inclined towards yet. Dragons listened at Gathers, riders dropped word with parents that maybe they wouldn’t have to foster sons with equally crowded holds after all, and the Weyr didn’t have to worry about formally Searching when a clutch was laid.

Someone showing up on _foot?_

“If I’d known that’d make me stick out so damn much I’d’ve hailed a dragon at some Gather, not hitched a ride with the tithing train,” Chojohrnen muttered to Junpei as they washed dishes one afternoon. He wasn’t really sure what to think of Junpei, yet, but he seemed to be the only other teen to _not_ ask personal questions, and that was enough reason to try and line up their chore assignments for now. It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes.

“Telling them to stop’ll make it worse,” Junpei said apologetically.

“Duh,” Chojohrnen said scornfully. Obvious secrets were _always_ more enticing than just a grumpy attitude. He knew _that_ from his Turns on the road, both seeking them out and keeping them. Hearing somebody blurt something out unthinkingly, and then try not to say anything else, drew even more attention. Unfortunately for Chojohrnen, he’d never gotten the hang of keeping his mouth shut in the first place.

Sometimes asking questions back worked to distract people. He’d tried that his first few days in the Weyr. It flustered the other fosterlings into remembering their manners. But Weyrbred kids just _answered,_ and then went right back to their nosy questions.

Afternoon dishwashing turned into evening meal-prep, and then serving from behind a buffet line, and then they _finally_ got to sit down and eat too. Chojohrnen made the mistake of sighing in relief, getting the attention of Esme, that girl who’d spied on his arrival.

“So are you into men or women?” Esme asked. She tended to drape herself over her friends and steal food from Junpei’s plate. Was doing it right now, in fact. “If there’s a clutch before you age out, there’ll be a betting pool on your color—”

“There’ll be a clutch,” Junpei said quietly. The tiniest hint of desperation colored his voice; Chojohrnen looked up from his food, intrigued. None of it showed on Junpei’s face. Even keel, that one. “Been over five Turns. Nearly six. Nine’s the record.”

“Hush, you.” Esme took another of his fried purple tubers. Chojohrnen kept a careful arm around his own plate and ate one-handed; he hadn’t spotted anyone else stealing portions, but… “So, new kid?”

“Are _you_ into men or women?” Chojohrnen asked back. _Everyone in the Weyr’s a damn perverted queer_ , his father always said. Then Chojohrnen turned out to be one too and Dad tried to kill him, so even with the harper’s reassurance, and seeing those women kiss, he wasn’t exactly keen on _saying so_.

“Oh, men, for sure,” Esme said, waving the tuber for emphasis. “Sleeping with other women just makes life _complicated_.” Complicated? Complicated how? Shit. “Speaking of aging out, how old are you anyway?”

Seventeen, which she must not’ve heard him tell the Headwoman, ha. “How old are _you?_ ”

“Nuh-uh, you still haven’t answered the first question yet, and I gave you a freebie!”

“She’s eighteen!” Earl, one of Chojohrnen’s dormmates, interjected from further down the table. He looked enough like Esme to be her twin, and she glared at him. “Do you not _know_ how old you are? Some of the other fosters don’t either. Outweyr folk don’t keep _any_ proper records.”

“They do too, Earl!” Esme snapped. She threw the tuber at him; Junpei caught it. Fast reflexes, _and_ not wasting food. Chojohrnen approved. “Oh! Gullers, hey, over here!” Esme half-stood, waving. Junpei raised his hand too. Chojohrnen glanced over his shoulder to see who they were waving at, and saw Rishall with her arm around the waist of the woman from the other day. The two of them waved back and wove between the other tables to join them.

“Hey, Chojorhen,” Rishall said, sitting down next to him. “Have you met—”

“Gullers!” Esme cut in cheerfully.

“Hey,” Gullers said. She leaned forward to raise her hand in a brief greeting around Rishall. “You’re the new foster, right? In Junpei’s dorm? I’m his pat-sister.”

“Nice to meet you,” Chojohrnen said. He glanced around for anyone paying Rishall’s arm around her waist too much attention, but no one was. “Esme just told me sleeping with other women makes life too complicated.”

Rishall groaned and rolled her eyes. Gullers just shrugged, her face impassive. “Not more complicated than sleeping with men.”

“Does too,” Esme said. “We _live_ with women. All the _men_ are off in their weyrs, or we meet ‘em at Gathers.”

Chojohrnen glanced between himself and Junpei, ignoring Earl. “We’re not men? Our dorms are pretty close to yours…”

“You’re candidates,” Esme said, as if that was its own entire category. Well, this was the Weyr. Maybe it was. “So, what kind of complicated are _you_ into?”

Before Chojohrnen could decide between dodging the question, lying, or making a rude gesture, Junpei spoke up quietly. “Gullers, Chojohrnen asked about the heated water in the bathing chamber, yesterday. You explain it better than I do.”

What? No, Chojohrnen hadn’t asked about that. He knew about hot springs. Though now he thought about it, the Weyr was an _inactive_ volcano, so maybe it was different than hot springs?

“Okay,” Gullers said. She leaned forward again, elbows resting on the table. “We’re using a geo-thermal system in combination with pipes—” she curled her hands into circles, pressed them against each other, and drew them apart as though sliding along a staff, or, well, pipe. “And pumps—” she flattened her hands and moved them up and down through the air. It didn’t seem condescending, like she was miming because Chojohrnen didn’t understand. He _knew_ condescending. “To get hot, clean water circulating into baths every weyr can access. The Lower Caverns are where it comes up naturally, and where we process snowmelt for most of the drinking water…”

After that dinner, any meal that Gullers made it to was a _lot_ less fraught for Chojohrnen. Ignorance of Weyr design was normal for a new fosterling, not like the little cultural things he carefully danced around, trying to figure out if he was supposed to know them already or not. Earl’s comment about holders not keeping “proper records” stuck with him. He knew he was born in the spring. Did Weyrfolk measure by something more specific? Should he know more than that?

The harper had been _appalled_ that Chojohrnen only knew _pieces_ of the Charter song. Revealing that ignorance had worked out, though. The harper taught him the rest, and Chojohrnen learned he had a _right_ to come to the Weyr, to Stand for Impression.

Now admitting, “No, I’ve never repaired a chimney,” got him an interesting talk, and reprieve from nosy questions. Gullers could go _on_ and _on_ about the intricate systems that made up the Weyr: old lava tunnels, human-carved segments, hot springs and pipes and modified pools. Even the chimneys in the kitchens, she explained, combined natural volcanic elements with human smithcraft. She grabbed dishes, utensils, handkerchiefs, anything in reach to illustrate her talks. Her face didn’t express much, a stoneyness there that Junpei shared (though if she was granite, her brother was sandstone, softer, more likely to give way), but she had the liveliest hands Chojohrnen had ever seen.

Whenever Gullers looked to be slowing down, and the other kids started up personal questions again, Junpei would quietly prompt Chojohrnen with another topic to ask her about. Whether Junpei wanted to save Chojohrnen from the pestering, or give his sister an excuse to talk about her passions, Chojohrnen didn’t care. It worked out for him either way.

~

All of his farm experience earned Chojohrnen a lot of chores with Rishall out among the herdbeasts, once he’d been run through enough types of work to settle into something close to a regular schedule. He tried to stay on her left, like she'd told him, both of their hands too occupied to sign. During breaks, she helped him learn Telgar hand-sign. It was different enough from Tillek sign to confuse him, and the weyrfolk dialect included the signals dragonriders used in flight.

Unlike Junpei, Rishall still peppered personal questions into conversation with a casual curiosity that, the longer Chojohrnen lived in the Weyr, made more sense. Holders and crafters were isolated by their work, and by the length and danger of a journey on foot, be it your own, a packbeast’s, or even a runnerbeast’s if you were better off. Weyrfolk were isolated by location. Dragons could go _between_ and come out anywhere else in the world in a few seconds. The majority of the human weyrfolk, however, weren’t dragonriders. And it was a _long_ way down the mountain, as Chojohrnen knew from hiking up it.

Rishall, at least, answered more questions than she asked, and was comfortingly blunt about weyrlife; no suspicious sugarcoating. Her hearing trouble turned out to be deafness in her right ear, from a fever when she was young that other weyrfolk skirted away from mentioning. “Worst winter outbreak in half a century,” Rishall said, when Chojohrnen asked about it. “Twenty-four riders and their dragons dead, including weyrlings. Over three times that from the Lower Caverns.”

“Is that why this place is so empty?” Chojohrnen asked. Esme bragged Benden had enough weyrs for over five hundred dragons, but there were only a hundred and thirty (give or take) in wings now, and around thirty retired. The weyrbrats bunked as many as they could to a room just to save on glowbaskets, not from lack of space.

Rishall nodded. “Illness, training accidents, and the queen not rising. Should be at least two queens, to keep the numbers up, but Weyrwoman Carola died young, and no one knows what to do to get Nemorth to lay a gold egg.”

Chojohrnen winced; you didn’t grow up on a farm and feel _good_ about having only one dam. Shards, no wonder even taciturn Junpei had sounded desperate about the odds of another clutch soon.

“So, uh,” Chojohrnen said, dragging their conversation away from death. “I know _I’m_ mucking out stalls and hauling feed because I’ve done farmwork before, but how’d you wind up, you know, doing this more than the other chores?”

“Livestock care is my specialization track,” Rishall said.

“Your what?”

“Specialization track,” Rishall repeated. When they put down the bags of feed by the troughs, to supplement grazing, she said the words in Telgar sign, too. When all _that_ got was a confused blink from Chojohrnen, she sighed. “Everyone has to keep up general skills, pitch in for the big events. Tithing trains, numbweed processing, feasts.”

“Yeah.”

“ _Most_ weyrgirls, though, we pick a couple things we’re good at. Or that we’re getting pushed towards, if we’re not interested in anything. And we specialize in it. Gullers is smithing and carpentry, keeping this place from falling apart. How do you think we get a Head Herbalist, or Smith, or Barterer? It’s not like we’re going to bring someone _in_ to do that.”

“Bet Smithing here looks pretty different from the Smithcraft Hall, anyway,” Chojohrnen mused. “When they design pumps it’s to empty a flooded mineshaft, or fixing a grain mill on the river. Not playing with old lava tunnels.” Rishall laughed. Chojohrnen hummed thoughtfully as they checked the troughs for debris before pouring the feed in. It was amazing what could fall out of the sky when dragonriders didn’t shake their boots off before mounting up.

“Do you get journeyman knots?” Chojohrnen asked. “Issue your own masteries? Could get into some real scrapes over that in the craftbooths, at a Gather.”

Rishall snorted. “No. You ever heard of a Bartering Crafthall?” She snorted again. “Goes a lot slower than an apprenticeship. No _rush_. Not like we’re going anywhere, not like the rejected candidates.” She smiled proudly. “I’m _good_ with beasties. Like to work with runners if I could, but bovine are fine. Did you know you can ride them?”

“Yep,” Chojohrnen said. “You gonna apprentice down in Keroon someday? If you’re so good at it...”

“You did notice these tits I’ve got, didn’t you?” Rishall said dryly.

Chojohrnen grinned at her. “What, do weyrfolk not have lavender ‘prentice pairs? You find a nice invert boy that likes beasties too, you show up as a married couple, he formally apprentices, you learn alongside him, and neither of you get—” He gulped down the memories, grin faltering. “Get the shit kicked out of you for inversion.”

He’d thought about that, traveling with the trading caravan. Picking a craft and finding an invert girl to team up with. Stop running. But what if the craft hall thought he ought to be dead, too? Or he made it all the way to journeyman, and the first hold they sent him to saw right through him? Then it’d be him _and_ some poor girl in trouble. At least with the Traders they’d always been a minute away from leaving, when things turned bad.

And with the Weyr...well, he’d never be trapped anywhere once he had a _dragon_.

“ _Invert_ ,” Rishall echoed, rolling her eyes. “Listen to a lot of ballads, do you?”

“Listening to ballads sure beats starring in them.”

“Ha!” Rishall grinned back. “Thanks for the idea, but I’m not going anywhere that won’t let _me_ apprentice properly. And, hey…” She grew serious. “You know that’s not gonna happen here, right?”

“Mm?”

“Getting the shit kicked out of you. Even if you don’t Impress, no one cares you’re queer.”

“That obvious, huh?” Chojohrnen tried to keep his voice light, airy, no big deal.

“You’re hardly the first candidate to show up jumping at his own shadow,” Rishall said. She flicked his forehead, and he glared at her. He wasn’t _that_ jumpy! Okay, so maybe he slept with his belt-knife on, and couldn’t relax in the dining cavern if his back wasn’t to a wall. Whatever. “Been a while since any as twitchy as you, though.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Chojohrnen said. Rishall’s grin came back. “I’m just trying to figure out where all the lines are, okay? Don’t wanna cross any.” Some holds ignored the queerness he could never manage to hide, if he didn’t step out of line. But most kept their line just as lethally tight as home had; he didn’t get _all_ his scars from smuggling runs gone wrong.

“That’s easy,” Rishall said. She pointed straight up just as a shadow passed over them. Chojohrnen looked up. An entire wing of dragons spiraled overhead, off on patrol. “It’s them. All of _this_ ,” she swung her arm out in a circle. “Is for _them_. Nothing else matters.”

“Ah.” Chojohrnen watched until all the patrol dragons winked out of sight, going _between_ to some far off place. “I can work with that.”

~

Junpei cemented his place as Chojohrnen’s favorite at the end of the second sevenday by not snitching to the adults when Chojohrnen punched him. It was Chojohrnen’s own damn fault; they were supposed to get up early for some gathering expedition in the scrubland outside the Weyr, and Chojohrnen forgot to warn Junpei that even nudging him awake was a bad idea. He jolted out of a nightmare, fist swinging instinctively, and got Junpei right in the chest.

“ _Ow_.”

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry—”

“Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay? I punched you! Shells, I’m sorry, do you need numbweed, I’m so sorry—”

“Please stop panicking.”

Chojohrnen froze, half off his bunk, trying to reach for his bag stored underneath. Junpei had stepped away, tentatively touching the growing bruise (Chojohrnen _knew_ how hard he could hit), but he was just looking at Chojohrnen in the dim light of a half-burnt glowbasket with concern. Not anger or fear.

“Breathe.”

“I’m breathing,” Chojohrnen said quietly, eyes darting around to see if he’d woken anyone else. Earl and Lomerik slept like the dead, but Omoriel was sitting up, blinking and rubbing his eyes. Junpei watched him a little longer, then nodded to himself and woke the others up. Chojohrnen bit down the urge to run, tugging his work clothes on over the undergarments he slept in like normal, walking down the tunnel to the dining cavern instead of slipping down a side tunnel and vanishing. He’d chosen to come to the Weyr. It was supposed to be better. He’d take the punishment for striking another candidate and survive. He always survived. He wasn’t going to run this time.

And then...nothing happened.

They all got to breakfast, and Junpei didn’t walk off to report him. Didn’t mention it to Jelally dishing out hot cereal, or Luceel pouring klah, or any of the dragonriders that sometimes veered past the weyrbrats’ tables to ruffle their hair or flirt with the oldest girls.

Chojohrnen sure as hell didn’t want to _remind_ Junpei what happened, because what if _that_ made him report it, but he couldn’t stand being tense, and when they were hiking down the hill towards the Benden Plateau he finally blurted out, “So am I getting kicked out for hitting you or what?”

“No. Wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t my—? _What?_ ”

“I should have asked the best way to wake you,” Junpei said, shrugging. Ahead of them, Earl and Esme teamed up to tease some girl Esme’s age about her crush on a dragonrider.

“Look,” Chojohrnen said, because his mouth was an idiot that wanted to get him in trouble. “You couldn’t have possibly expected me to do that. You didn’t even shake my shoulder, just kind of touched my arm, and Faranth knows that hasn’t been a problem when I’m _awake—_ ”

“Omoriel bites when he’s startled.” Junpei shrugged again. “Everyone’s different. I should’ve asked.”

“Okay, well, great,” Chojohrnen said, confused and relieved. “Not my fault. Sure. Okay. You’re obviously crazy, but all the stories say _that’s_ normal for weyrfolk, so I guess that’s fine. We’re fine.” And, because Chojohrnen must be a madman too, to’ve come to the Weyr, he smacked Junpei with his gathering basket. “Thanks.”

~

The single greatest constant in Junpei’s life was that everyone left.

It started before he could remember, the fever sweeping through the Weyr, taking his grandmother, sending playmates who lost more hearing than Rishall to be fostered outweyr, barred from candidacy.

Then his mother and brothers apprenticing in their crafts.

When his grandfather passed, B’sur’s old wingmates who could still fly took Junpei with them back to Greystones to witness the Nerat seaholders sink B’sur below the waves. The old bluerider had joked with Loroth in his last few months that the dragon better come find him with his family in the deep blue, not stay _between_. None of the mourners stayed with Junpei back in the Weyr after the sea burial, shoo’ing him off to the Lower Caverns.

Even his peers who’d Impressed at the last Hatching had left, in a way. They were too busy with their hatchlings, and then with training, to play with the weyrbrats between chores. Everyone twelve or younger had stayed friends longer, grouped together for afternoon lessons in math, history, reading and writing, but when they got too old for that all bets were off. N’bast and L’colm clung to their time with Omoriel whenever their greens were grounded, joining in with whatever task he was doing, regardless of what the adults _told_ them to do. Less stubborn friendships had fallen apart.

Junpei tried not to think about how stubborn he’d have to be to keep seeing his sisters, once he Impressed. They were all old enough to be busy all the time. If he got bronze he could set his own schedule someday, be on the council, ask Headwoman Manora to give his sisters more time off. Even as a brownrider, like everyone kept predicting for him, he could work up to wingsecond and then the council.

In his most secret daydreams, where no one could call him a fool or rant about tradition, he Impressed bronze, became Weyrleader, and threw the Hatchings open to _everyone_. Flew through the skies with Gullers and Esme in his wing.

Fostered candidates breezed in every Turn, awed by the dragonriders or anxious from false rumors. They breezed out again when they got too old to Stand, or even earlier if they just couldn’t adjust. Junpei used to hope they’d decide their Weyr friendships were worth sticking around for. Fantasized, as he got older, about a few in particular, who had nice smiles and nicer laughs, declaring it didn’t matter that there was no new clutch as long as _Junpei_ wanted them there.

He didn’t do that anymore. Fostering helped the Weyr get better tithes, reminded holders and crafters their work was helping their own kin, but once candidates aged out the adults didn’t want them taking up supplies. What Junpei wanted wasn’t what the Weyr needed. And the former candidates didn’t want the constant reminder of their own disappointment, watching dragons all around that would never be theirs.

Nowadays Junpei stayed polite, helpful, and distant.

Junpei was perfectly ready to stay distant with Chojohrnen, too, even as dormmates, but Chojohrnen had apparently decided otherwise. Except for the four mornings a sevenday that Junpei minded little kids while Chojohrnen worked with herdbeasts and chickens, Chojohrnen stuck to Junpei like glue. Once the adults finished testing his skills, Sanra dropped word with Headwoman Manora that they might as well pair the two boys up for the rest of their schedules, because Chojohrnen always sought Junpei out when he was at loose ends, instead of looking for a proper task.

It could’ve been annoying. It _should’ve_ been annoying. Junpei could barely stand his _own_ company for that much time. But Junpei, to his own surprise, _liked_ Chojohrnen. He didn’t tell Junpei to talk more, perfectly content to fill silences with songs and folk tales he’d picked up with the Traders. He didn’t praise Junpei for working hard, like the adults did, or tease him about it, like the other kids did. He even distracted Esme with questions about mating flights and Weyr sexual norms when she started nosing into Junpei’s (nonexistent) love life.

Chojohrnen was...restful, Junpei thought. Which didn’t make sense, because Chojohrnen spent every moment of their free time bouncing around looking for things to do, asking questions absurd enough the adults responded with exasperated sighs instead of answers. But Junpei found himself tagging along as Chojohrnen explored the Weyr, seeing old grounds with new eyes, murmuring sarcastic answers to the irreverent questions under his breath, something warm and bright fizzing in his chest every time it made Chojohrnen laugh.

Maybe it was just that they were the oldest two unImpressed boys left at Benden Weyr. Everyone else was flying patrols, training with Weyrlingmaster C’gan, or gone. Chojohrnen was only a Turn younger than Junpei, and used to taking care of himself. It was _nice_ to have someone he didn’t need to look out for, that was all.

Even if he couldn’t help looking out for him anyway.

~

Across most of Pern, the Traders travelled as entire families. Some kept their wagons on short routes where they were practically members of the local holder and crafter communities, some on longer ones that could span the entire Northern Continent. Most caravans were a mix, with a few wagons turning around at a specific spot in the trail, arbitrary-seeming to outsiders, while the rest continued on.

But in the Faxlands, the caravans only took men, for safety. When he joined, and even by the time he left, Chojohrnen had been the youngest by a handful of Turns. If you were in that caravan, you were an adult, pulling your weight, sharing responsibilities. Sure, Chojohrnen got all the shittiest jobs, like cleaning muck out of the wagonbeasts’ horned toes, or jacking off border guards. But that was because he’d been an outsider, not his age. It was the same with the tithing train he’d hitched a ride with from Crom.

Now in the Weyr he was surrounded by kids, and it was weird as hell. Little ones ran wild everywhere. Some of his chores partners were only thirteen! And despite being told he was in the oldest dorm, the adults all acted like _he_ wasn’t any more responsible than said kids. Annoying. At least his first instinct of sticking with Junpei thankfully kept them out of his hair most of the time. For some reason they all thought Junpei was “a dependable young man, who’ll keep you on track.”

As Junpei didn’t seem to care that Chojohrnen spent twice as long as he should at a given task because he kept wanting to try out different methods of _doing_ the task, to see if they were faster (they weren’t), or getting distracted by the huge variety of noises the dragons made (“The ballads only ever have bugles and roars!” “Mm-hm.” “That was a chirp! That was the loudest chirp I’ve ever heard! Do they do that a lot?” “ _Mm_ -hm.”), and friendly felines, Chojohrnen simply added this assumption to his growing pile of proof that once adults made up their minds about you, they only saw what they expected to.

The adults’ skepticism made a little sense when Chojohrnen watched their dormmates running around. Aside from Junpei and himself, they all acted way younger than they were. He could have _sworn_ they were just tall fourteen-Turn-olds, but only Lomerik was; Earl and Omoriel were nearly sixteen. And not just their dormmates; Chojohrnen kept assuming Rishall and Gullers were his age, since they took their jobs seriously yet had more humor than the recognized adults, but they were twenty. They were three Turns older than him! He still couldn’t believe _Esme_ was older than him!

If Chojohrnen thought having people older than him act younger was strange, taking orders from people younger was downright _bizarre_. At least the Weyr had a system to tell ranks among the dragonriders, and _most_ of them were on the older side, but the exceptions always startled him.

The first time some baby-faced rider walked into the mending room and dumped a bunch of ripped firestone sacks on their work table with nothing more than the words, “We need these back by tomorrow,” Chojohrnen almost told him to get fucked. Fortunately he had a mouthful of pins at the time, and Junpei noticed him glaring.

“F’nor, wait a moment,” Junpei said, and the rider turned back from the door. Junpei touched Chojohrnen’s shoulder lightly, then pointed at F’nor’s chest. “Those are wingesecond’s knots. Anyone with knots like us—” Junpei touched the simple two-strand twist of white cording on Chojohrnen’s tunic that Sanra had given him without explanation “—but with color, is a weyrling—”

“Who can’t tell their tail from their feet, yet,” F’nor said with an easy smile. He was sixteen, Chojohrnen would find out later, and the youngest rider to make wingsecond in a century.

“...who can’t dump their work off on us,” Junpei finished wryly. “Like your brother used to try.” F’nor grimaced, but didn’t deny it. “Retired riders wear a loop and don’t _have_ work to shirk. Everyone else can give us tasks without clearing them with the Headwoman first, because _our_ jobs only exist so the dragonriders can do _their_ jobs.”

“Some of us even remember our werybrat days well enough to realize letting you do _your_ jobs with as little interruption as possible is the best thing we can do,” F’nor said. He patted the pile of firestone sacks with another smile, this one almost apologetic. “The wing does need these by tomorrow, though.”

“Mm-hm,” Junpei said, and waited until F’nor left to pinch the bridge of his nose, the strongest show of exasperation Chojohrnen had seen from him yet. “ _‘Remember_ _our_ _weyrbrat_ _days’_. F’nor Impressed at _ten_ , the most weyrbrat work he ever got old enough for was _gathering_.”

Chojohrnen finally got the last pin into the piece he was repairing. “Never washed a dish in his life?”

“Nope.” Junpei sighed. “F’lar did, when his father wasn’t drilling him on the duty ballads, but then he Impressed bronze.”

“ _Are_ there any weyrlings?” Chojohrnen asked, counting out handspans of thread. “I haven’t seen those knots…” He waved one hand vaguely at Junpei’s chest. “Anything but grubby white.”

“Four— no, two,” Junpei corrected himself. “L’rad and N’ol joined wings last month. Just N'bast and L'colm now.”

“What’s the hold up?” Five Turns sounded like more than enough to learn how to sit on a dragon without falling off, and as far as he could tell, dragonriders didn’t do much more than fly useless patrols these days. What were they even looking for, with no Thread falling?

“You can’t be a wingrider before sixteen,” Junpei explained. “And the youngest from Nemorth’s last clutch are Omoriel’s age, only ten back then. F’nor wasn’t fair with that ‘telling tail from feet’ bit. _He’s_ Omoriel’s age, and so are D’nol, S’lan—”

“They’re those bronze trainees, right?” Chojohrnen checked. “Not... _quite_ weyrlings?”

Junpei nodded. “Just one extra loop on their knots, their wingleaders took over their training from C’gan. N’bast and L’colm have been dragonriders just as long, but they’re green. Wingleaders can be…” Junpei frowned in thought.

“Judgey about greens,” Chojohrnen said. He’d picked up _that_ much so far. Everyone said greens were wicked fast, but too distractible. Browns were hardworking, reliable, bronzes were leaders, and no one really bothered to say anything about blues. He could feel swarms of other stereotypes swimming around unsaid, in knowing looks and trailed off comments, but hadn’t worked them out yet. He would.

He was good at that.

~

Junpei sighed as yet another girl slipped away from the laundry lines to go watch the shirtless dragonriders and unImpressed teens grappling on the dry autumn grass. Others formed a laughing semicircle around them, one side deliberately left open so anyone coming out of the Lower Caverns could see and admire.

“I thought wrestling matches were a holdfolk thing,” Chojohrnen said, shielding his eyes to stare across the Bowl. “Don’t dragonriders have a rule against fighting?”

“Wrestling isn’t fighting,” Junpei explained. He’d answered a lot of Chojohrnen’s questions over the last few sevendays. Esme and Earl had too, but they always liked to give three explanations for one question and make the fosterlings guess. Lomerik, who’d always given up on guessing and asked Omoriel to explain things instead, was trying, and failing, to pin wingleader T’bor. “It’s a time-honored traditional exercise for keeping the mind and body limber.”

“And show off your muscles to the girls,” Chojohrnen deduced, spotting even more of their laundry duty partners sneaking off to join the circle of onlookers. “Much easier to watch than those jogs around the Bowl.”

Junpei shrugged slightly; there was an empty weyr, closer to the ground than most, that weyrfolk had worn a narrow path up to untold Turns before. Esme and some of her friends liked to watch the joggers go past from it. But _Esme_ could tell Chojohrnen about it. Or he could explore the Bowl more and find the base of the path himself. That seemed more likely; Chojohrnen had spent every morning before breakfast so far curiously poking around all the storage closets and unused rooms in the Lower Caverns. And since he kept bringing Junpei along as company, not a guide, he’d probably like finding it himself more than being told.

“Bare hands only, or is there weapons sparring too?” Chojohrnen asked, tugging down another sun-dried sheet to fold.

“There used to be,” Junpei said. “Wooden knives, sometimes staffs. But if anyone’s still doing that, it’s out of sight. Wingleaders might sanction it privately, but publicly, the bronze council’s line is that even a dull, wooden knife to the wrong spot is too much of a risk.”

“...because of the old Weyrleader’s murder.” Chojohrnen added the sheet to Junpei’s basket. He stretched, looking around in a surreptitious way Junpei admired for its subtlety, and saw that they were the only two people left collecting laundry. “Some of Fax’s border guards and tithe collectors still brag about that.”

Junpei’s hands went very still on the heavy pillowcase he was sliding sheets into. He remembered Weyrleader F’lon; a loud, charismatic man, who laughed easily, both with and at people. Junpei could easily imagine people disliking the man— it was very easy for him to dislike F’lon’s sons, after all —but he couldn’t imagine someone _bragging_ about his death.

A loud curse and roar of laughter broke the silence; Junpei looked over to see T’bor sitting on top of Lomerik’s back, winking at one of the girls. Eager hands helped both wrestlers up, and another pair took their place in the circle.

The next pair were actually F’lar and his current wingsecond, brownrider T’sum. Junpei had once overheard members of F’lar’s wing talking quietly about training with wooden knives, groaning over bruises while planning their next sparring match. Though this public spar was barehanded, Junpei could picture the weapons in their hands, this same scene in the middle of a Gather, spectators not realizing the cry of insult-given was cover for murder, the sun flashing on the blade just before it struck—

“Hey.” Chojohrnen was still looking at Junpei. “Are you okay?”

“...that man orphaned two boys when he killed the Weyrleader,” Junpei said finally. C’gan said F’lon died surprised. He felt queasy. 

“Fax’s men have made a lot of orphans,” Chojohrnen said, tilting his head. He flashed a sharp grin. “I, unfortunately, am not one of them.”

“What?” Junpei asked, confused. One of what? Fax’s men? An orphan?

“Shit.” Chojohrnen looked away, crossing his arms over his chest, hunching. “Sorry, that was— sorry.”

“Are... _you_ okay?” Junpei asked.

“I’m always okay,” Chojohrnen said, the most obvious lie Junpei had ever heard in his life, and he’d grown up with Earl. “I meant...nobody’s happy about that murder, even the people who hate dragonriders. There’s a line, you know? I just meant, fuck, that was stupid. Forget it.”

Chojohrnen turned back to the laundry lines, jerking clothes down with shaking hands. Junpei watched him for a minute, folding the clothes Chojohrnen handed him silently.

“Nobody knew Omoriel had dragonsense until he came here,” Junpei said eventually. It wasn’t a secret. Omoriel always shrugged and said he didn’t care who knew why he came to the Weyr. “His mom shoved him at the first rider she saw one Gather, said finding him a craft hall was our problem now.”

“Ouch,” Chojohrnen said.

“She was doing her best,” Junpei said. Chojohrnen looked at him incredulously over an armload of sheets. “His brother’s fifteen Turns older, and angry their father wanted them both to inherit, split the hold in half. There were...pranks, accidents. Tunnel snakes in Omoriel’s bed, too-worn straps on the runner beasts. But their father thinks the best of everyone.”

“Mine doesn’t,” Chojohrnen said. He ripped the next sheet down and muttered, “Wish _he’d_ had an accident.” Another sheet. “Wish they’d _all_ had accidents.”

“I’m sorry you’re not an orphan,” Junpei said. Chojohrnen whipped around, jaw dropping. It stretched out the big scar on his face. He stared in shock at Junpei for a good five seconds, long enough to worry Junpei had guessed wrong and said something terrible.

Then Chojohrnen burst out laughing, loud, hysterical, and so hard he had to sit down. One corner of Junpei’s mouth tugged up, relieved by and proud of his success. When Chojohrnen looked up and saw the tiny smile on Junpei’s face, he laughed even louder, falling backwards onto the grass.

“Faranth’s Teeth, someone finally find your face as funny as I do, Juney?”

Junpei stiffened at A’jellan’s voice ring out a few yards behind him. He refused to turn around, folding dry sheets and sliding them into the pillowcases. At least Esme had already snuck off so she wasn’t here to get picked at. Nobody made Gullers do laundry anymore, but A’jellan was scared of her now.

Chojohrnen’s laughter cut off; he shoved himself to his feet. As A’jellan and several other dragonriders just back from patrol walked up, pausing on their way towards the circle, Chojohrnen snapped out, “Hey, are you fucking stupid? There’s no Juney in the Lower Caverns, that’s _Junpei_.”

A’jellan shrugged. “Is it? Must’ve got him mixed up with one of the other rejected candidates. Hey, how long you got left anyway?” A’jellan smirked. A couple other riders chuckled, but the third looked uncomfortable. “Two Turns? One and a half? Gonna run away like your mom did?”

“Fuck off,” Chojohrnen snarled, stepping between Junpei and A’jellan. He had his hands up, ready to shove. Junpei grabbed his arm; Chojohrnen froze, but didn’t back off. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“Yeah, A’jellan,” the uncomfortable rider said. “Stop picking on weyrbrats, you said you wanted a rematch with T’bor. Let’s go.”

A’jellan rolled his eyes, but thankfully left without another word. Junpei let go of Chojohrnen, who waited until the riders were all gone before quietly saying, “Don’t grab me again.”

“I won’t,” Junpei promised.

“Good.”

“If you’d shoved him you’d’ve been in trouble,” Junpei explained. “If he’d been hurt, they might’ve kicked you out without a warning.”

“Oh,” Chojohrnen said. Neither of them touched the laundry, watching the distant wrestling match instead of each other. “For shoving? Shoving’s not fighting.”

“Not if you’re both kids, but if someone’s got a dragon and you crack their skull…”

Chojohrnen winced. “Fuck. Okay. Thanks. Don’t do it again, but thanks.” Over in the circle of spectators, Esme glared at the newcomers before flouncing back towards the laundry lines. “A’jellan. Why’s that name familiar?”

“Omoriel warned you about him,” Junpei said. “When you first got here.”

“Right. He’s the bastard that likes getting a rise out of people. Used to go after Gullers all the time, since she’s got that, you know, that stoneface thing making her a challenge.”

Junpei nodded, swallowing the anger at those memories. A’jellan hated his mat-brother’s pat-sibs for no reason they could ever make out, picking on Gullers, Junpei, and Esme whenever they crossed paths, getting worse when Rally actually _left_. His old wingleader had never spent enough time in the Lower Caverns to notice or a care that a rider in his twenties was taunting teens into losing their cool.

At least his wingleader and Dad had cared when he finally crossed the line with Gullers.

“Used to,” Chojohrnen repeated thoughtfully. “What changed?”

“She broke his wrist.”

“She _what?_ ”

“Oh hey,” Esme said, cranky glare turning into a bright grin. “Are we talking shit about A’jellan? Are we talking about the _beautiful_ day that Gullers snapped him like a twig?”

“Apparently,” Chojohrnen said, looking between Junpei and Esme, bewildered. “I can’t shove people, but Gullers can break wrists?”

“One wrist, singular,” Esme said. Junpei started folding laundry again, leaving the story to Esme. “He made it physical first, and Junpei _and_ a few retired dragons who’d seen it spoke up, acted witness—”

“The _dragons_ spoke up?”

“Well, Junpei asked them to,” Esme said. Chojohrnen looked at him with something uncomfortably like awe, and Junpei flushed. “Their eyes work different than ours, but they still _see_ ,” Esme went on blithely. “And hear. And everyone knows they can’t lie, and it’d all been outside, so even if they didn’t understand a lot of what happened they could still describe it all to their riders, who passed it on. The oldfolk like Gullers, she’s learning mechanics and plumbing from Winona, keeps their cavern nice and toasty, not too dry, not too wet, real good.”

“Getting off track,” Chojohrnen said.

“Who cares about tracks,” Esme said, waving her hand dismissively. “Anyway, there’s this duty ballad about how dragonriders are supposed to treat nonriders, we all learned it as kids, and the weyrlings learn it all over again during training. A broken wrist won’t kill you, so it didn’t endanger Dorth, and A’jellan crossed a line, didn’t follow the duty ballad, so we kept Gullers from getting in trouble.” Esme broke into a broad grin. “We couldn’t get _him_ in trouble, most of the other riders thought a broken wrist was consequence enough, but the Headwoman’s got our backs and hounded K’ban over it—”

“K’ban?”

“His old wingleader,” Junpei said, as Esme blinked, likely forgetting Chojohrnen didn’t know everyone’s histories like they did yet.

“Yeah, he’s okay,” Esme said. “Didn’t want to deal with it though, so he just badgered the other wingleaders into making a transfer. A’jellan flies with Sh’xsa now.”

“ _That_ didn’t work out,” Junpei muttered. Chojohrnan raised his eyebrows questioningly. Junpei shrugged slightly. “Sh’xsa only cares about the Spring Game. Doesn’t care about anything outside them.”

“Ah,” Chojohrnen said. He nodded. “Steer clear of the bastard for now, got it.”

“For now?” Esme asked.

Chojohrnen grinned, just as mean as Esme. “Can’t kick me out once I’ve got my _own_ dragon.”


	3. Autumn, Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supplementary Materials are being posted! If you're new to Pern, I recommend C's linked primer and the Introduction for the basis of our story's starting point.
> 
> AAT 2493, Autumn, Winter.

It could take a good ten minutes to walk across the Bowl from the main entrance of the Lower Caverns to the herdbeast pens. Rishall usually packed a lunch instead of trekking back to the dining cavern, and on days with morning  _ and _ afternoon chores out there, Chojohrnen did too. A very low-level weyr over the feed shed made a good resting spot, thanks to the curved tunnel connecting it to the ground.

“Why isn’t anyone living here?” Chojohrnen asked Rishall, careful to use the Telgar sign for ‘anyone’ instead of the Tillek one. His accent still made her laugh, on the days he signed too fast and got words mixed up. “The smell isn’t that bad.”

“The higher you are, the more room the dragons have to glide,” Rishall explained, repeating  _ glide _ a few times for him to copy. It was one of the dragonrider flight signals.

“But the dragon could eat and nap right away, and the rider could just walk to wherever they wanted,” Chojohrnen signed back. He knew now from Gullers’ ramblings that some of the weyrs had back tunnels leading down and out to the Bowl, or into the Lower Caverns, and didn’t understand why they weren’t more popular. Wasn’t it stressful, being stuck in your weyr or the Bowl because your dragon was sleeping?

“Maybe it would be during a Pass,” Rishall said. “Sanra said the Headwoman before Manora groused we were all lazy and underworked, because the dragonriders all bring their laundry  _ to _ us to wash, instead of us walking up the tunnels to collect what we could. Maybe if Thread comes back this weyr will go to a wingleader, like the junior queens’ weyrs used to, and all the low-rankers will get the unconnected weyrs.”

“The last Pass was over four centuries ago,” Chojohrnen pointed out. “How old  _ was _ the last Headwoman?”

Rishall laughed, then spotted something out in the Bowl and hurried over to the very edge of the weyr’s outer ledge, beckoning Chojohrnen to join her. They sprawled on their stomachs on the warm stone, lowering their profiles so they were almost out of sight, lunch forgotten behind them.

“Nemorth,” Rishall whispered.

The biggest dragon Chojohrnen had seen yet walked slowly towards the feeding grounds, golden hide gleaming in the autumn sun. A woman Chojohrnen thought was small, at first, walked beside her, a long blue dress setting her like a jewel against the golden dragon. As they drew near, he realized the woman was actually quite tall and fat; her dragon was simply, terrifyingly,  _ enormous. _

Dragons with retired riders dozed in the Bowl and lowest weyrs, and those leaving for or returning from patrol often landed near the entrance to the Lower Caverns. Chojohrnen hadn’t dared approach the dozing ones, despite Esme and Omoriel cheerfully telling him they liked getting their head-knobs scratched. And the patrol dragons were careful not to get so close to the Lower Caverns that they’d disturb the work done there. Lying on this ledge across the corral from Nemorth was the closest he’d been to a dragon in his life.

She could eat him in one gulp. Every animal instinct Chojohrnen had ought to send him fleeing into the depths of the weyr. Instead, looking at her just made him feel  _ sad. _

“Behold,” Rishall said aloud, but quietly. “Our Weyrwoman. Not even the bronze council outranks her. Not until Nemorth rises and we get a Weyrleader again.”

“So...don’t piss her off?” Chojohrnen ventured. The woman next to the golden dragon shielded her eyes from the autumn sun, looking towards the low weyr. Chojohrnen stayed still, feeling like an eavesdropper.

“I don’t think she  _ gets _ pissed,” Rishall said. “But if we bother her everyone  _ else _ will be. Can’t go upsetting the only queenrider we have. Jora’s still grieving F’lon.”

The Weyrwoman sat right down on the grass by the fence enclosing the feeding grounds. Chojohrnen winced; that blue dress was going to stain  _ horribly. _ As Nemorth rose into the air to choose a doomed herdbeast, the Weyrwoman reached behind her head and started braiding her hair in the same easy style Junpei kept his in. Except when she reached the end, after Nemorth had killed her meal and ripped into it, the Weyrwoman must have realized she had no way to tie it, for she let go of her hair again and dropped her hands onto her lap.

The day’s light wind undid all her work in seconds.

~

“All right, final word’s in,” Headwoman Manora told the assembled group of Lower Cavern workers and teenage weyrbrats. “None of the Holds with Gathers left this autumn are friendly enough.”

A mass groan of disappointment swept over the crowd. Chojohrnen turned curiously to Junpei, a habitual action by now. “Wingseconds feel the mood out,” Junpei said quietly, while everyone around them grumbled. “The bronze council won’t let anyone visit Holds that are unfriendly to dragonriders.”

“Ah. Let me guess, they don’t even bother checking the Western Claw?” He couldn’t remember even  _ word _ of dragonriders at a Western Gather since he was twelve.

_ “Which means,” _ the Headwoman cut in loudly above the grumbling. “That we’re gathering wild marsh oil pods tomorrow before it gets too cold, since we can’t barter for them.” A pause as she quirked her brows. “Unless you’d all prefer our salves smell like their  _ components…” _

A shudder went up from everyone who’d worked in the Weyr’s stillroom.

“Hey! New kid!” Esme slung an arm over Chojohrnen’s shoulder as the crowd broke up.

“New kid? Really? Esme, I’m wounded.”

“Psh,” Esme said. “You’re new until someone else is newer.” She grinned at him. “Guess what this means!”

“We’re all going to smell like compost for a sevenday?” He’d done that chore enough with his siblings and cousins to ingrain the smell deep in his brain, before running away. Only dealing with the finished products had been one of the perks of being a Trader. Maybe he’d get lucky and it’d turn out mucking around a marsh was better with people you hadn’t grown up with.

“It  _ means _ you finally get that  _ dragon ride _ you missed out on!” Esme shifted her arm to ruffle his hair.

“Really?” Chojohrnen grinned, a childish excitement bubbling up through him. “The  _ dragons _ are taking us?” No way. She had to be pulling his leg. Dragons went on patrols to (supposedly) keep Pern safe, or trained for the Spring Games to stay sharp, or  _ maybe _ carried important people like Lord Holders and Master Crafters on important missions. They didn’t just let grubby kids climb on up to go  _ marsh oil gathering. _

“How  _ else _ are we gonna get to Igen?” Esme said. She patted his head condescendingly and slipped her arm back off.

“Wait, what?”

“Too cold up here already,” Junpei said in Telgar sign, instead of trying to pitch his voice over everyone’s chatter. “This late in the Turn, we’re going to Igen.”

“Isn’t Igen a desert?” Chojohrnen signed back, confused. Junpei wouldn’t pull his leg, but this was just absurd.

_ “Upper _ Igen is dry as fuck,” Esme said, rolling her eyes, swinging her head too to show just how slow she thought Chojohrnen was being.  _ “Lower _ Igen is split between two peninsulas, and they’re green. Didn’t they ever show you a  _ map, _ in that rock you crawled out from under?”

Chojohrnen ignored that last comment; he was pretty sure some of the other kids were starting to make small bets over learning his hold of origin, which he was  _ not _ gonna help them win. If nobody knew where he’d come from, nobody could make him go back, even if he didn’t Impress and got kicked out.

“But is it  _ really _ dragons who take us?” he asked Junpei instead.

“Riders too old for a wing get bored,” Junpei said. “And they want the salves to smell good too.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Chojohrnen said, laughing. He wasn’t the only one excited; this would be the last chance to run a little wild before the snows set in. Even the older workers, long used to getting dragon rides as needed, were giggling happily the rest of the day as they hunted down gathering tools.

“Hey, hey Omorieeeel,” Earl said at dinner, reaching across the table to poke their dormmate in the arm. “Are your girlfriends gonna take us tomorrow?”

“Tinall’s not a dragonrider,” Omoriel said, confused. “And there’s only one of her.”

“Not  _ her,” _ Earl said. “Your  _ girlfriends. _ You know, the green ones. They’re not in a wing yet, can’t they get out of training?”

Omoriel frowned, even more confused, and then suddenly went wide-eyed as realization hit him. “They’re not girls! Don’t call them that!” He tried to smack Earl, who dodged, laughing.

“Uh-huh, they are, I hear the wingseconds call them that  _ all the time—” _

“Shut up! Shut up!”

“The wingseconds also say you’re cursed, Earl,” Junpei cut in sharply, in the coldest tone Chojohrnen had ever heard from him. Everyone else at their table fell silent. Chojohrnen tensed up at the sudden silence, hand clutching the nearest wherry-knife instinctively. No. Bad plan. It’s just a kiddy-fight. He made himself let go, hoping no one had noticed.

“...uh,” Chojohrnen said, deliberately awkward and as confused as he could make his voice. “The harpers I’ve met were all pretty, uh, pretty sure that dragons don’t curse people? They sure didn’t like holders blaming bad crops and stillborn calves on dragons…”

“It’s not the dragons that cursed this dim-glow, it’s our mom,” Esme said, glaring at Earl. “She made his name too short. What dragon’s gonna pick a candidate that can’t contract his name properly?”

“Oh, whatever,” Earl said, crossing his arms. “I can just throw the  _ L _ at the front. Curses aren’t real. What’re you gonna say next, Esme, that the Whispering Ghost is real? Grow up.”

_ “You _ grow up,” Omoriel and Esme snapped at the same time, then looked at each other and giggled. Chojohrnen relaxed. Giggling was a good sign. Everything was fine. They were fine. Next to him, Junpei let out a slow breath.

Even that spat couldn’t ruin the excitement for the expedition, nor could getting up early and rushing through breakfast. Chojohrnen raced out to the Bowl once he’d packed lunch, canvas sack over his shoulder and protective gloves shoved through his belt. They were long enough to keep the water out, but if you did reach down too far and get wet and gross inside, it was still better than cutting your hands on the sharp stems.

“Good morning!” Chojohrnen bounced on his toes in front of the dragonrider Sanra had pointed him towards. Tinall and Felena arrived just a moment later. Tinall was Rishall’s younger sister, only had one hand, and spent her free time with Omoriel. Felena was one of the very few _girl_ _fosterlings,_ but she’d been at Benden Weyr since her holder mother tracked down her dragonrider father at a Gather when she was three, so it didn’t come up much.

“Good morning to you too!” the silver-haired dragonrider laughed. He wore the same leathers all the other riders did, but the blue cording on his shoulder was in a simple loop to indicate retirement, rather than the complicated wing-rank knots. Chojohrnen hadn’t learned the wing-ranks yet, since you mostly just needed to know if someone was a weyrling or not, and that a rider  _ out _ of leathers and  _ in _ green cords helping with chores might drop everything and vanish to the privacy chamber at any moment.

“This is all of us, sir,” Felena said, as Tinall started bouncing too.

“Off we go then!” Someone with hair that silver and a face that wrinkled shouldn’t move as swift and strongly as the dragonrider did, in Chojohrnen’s experience, but maybe that was one of the benefits of weyrlife. “And don’t call me sir, kiddo, it makes me feel old.”

Felena sighed. “You  _ are _ old, Uncle R’len.”

“You’re only as old as you feel!” R’len winked at them all. “And I only feel as old as Lamath does.”

Lamath waited for them in the middle of the Bowl, far from the laundry lines, herb gardens, and chicken run. Chojohrnen swallowed hard when they got close, the sense of awe at the sheer  _ impossibility _ of dragons he’d felt when first seeing one a decade ago welling up inside him. He’d seen them around the Weyr since arriving, sure, but he hadn’t gotten this  _ close. _

“Nice to meet you, Lamath,” Chojohrnen said. The blue dragon opened one eye, lifted his head off the grass, and nudged Chojohrnen in the chest.

“He wants you to scratch his head-knobs,” R’len said, grinning when Chojohren immediately reached out to do so. The draconic appendages were at the top of their skull, back a ways from their eyes, and if the very quiet rumble coming out of Lamath was any indication, felt just as good getting scratched as a feline’s chin.

“Lamath’s going to get spoiled,” Felena said, stepping around to scratch the base of the other head-knob, smiling. Tinall patted the dragon’s nose.

“Spoiled the day he was hatched, this one,” R’len said fondly, and chivvied them all to climb up.

Getting settled between the ridges on Lamath’s neck was one thing, and so was carefully threading the safety line around everyone and through their belts.

Not shrieking when Lamath surged to his feet and launched into the air was another thing entirely.

“Felena, dear, tell the new kid to open his eyes,” R’len called over the rush of wind. “He won’t want to miss this!”

“You’re not going to fall off, we promise,” Tinall said, squeezing her arms around Chojohrnen’s waist. His own arms were tight around Felena, who clung to her uncle.

“Ten seconds to  _ between!”  _ R’len called out. “Ten...nine...eight…”

Chojohrnen opened his eyes. Tilted his head just a little to the side, peering over Felena’s shoulder, then past the front edge of Lamath’s strong blue wing, and saw Benden Weyr shrinking below them. The mountains spread out around them, the Northern Barrier Range white-capped in the distance. Other dragons rose too, green, blue, and brown, bugling to each other and to the watch-pair on the caldera’s edge.

“...three...two...one!”

Everything went black. Cold. He was alone, it was cold and dark and he  _ couldn’t die here not like this— _

The world erupted into being again, as quickly as it had gone. Wet, earthy heat rose up as Lamath spiralled down, the marshes of Lower Igen reaching out with scent and sound to greet them. Chojohrnen sucked in a deep breath, trying to lighten up his hold on Felena. They’d warned him about  _ between.  _ Warnings didn’t help. That was  _ terrible. _

Chojohrnen flexed his hands a few times before unthreading the safety line, shaking out the cold. Felena patted his shoulder before sliding down Lamath’s side. Chojohrnen followed her quickly, very glad of the muggy heat already making itself known through his jacket.

All the dragons slunk off to sunbathe once they deposited their passengers, and most of their riders did too, lying down on the rolling hills high enough to be out of the marsh, tugging their flight-caps down over their eyes to block the sun. Chojohrnen waved good-bye to Felena and Tinall and left to find the other boys, mentally noting down which hill Lamath was on.

“Right!” He found his dormmates and clapped his hands together. “So which way are we going? Up past the trees, or down around those boulders?”

Junpei tilted his head towards the marsh in front of him, warm gear for going  _ between _ already shed. “We’re all here.”

“So the girls are going further, then?” Chojohrnen asked, peeling off his own warm outerwear. He wasn’t looking forward to the extra questions that would come from stripping down to smallclothes, had been bathing at odd hours to avoid them as long as possible, but marshes with oil pod plants were hell on fabric. “Is there a count for when it’s safe to look, or will they just yell?”

“We’re...all...here?” Junpei repeated, just a hint of confusion in his voice.

Chojohrnen froze with his hands on his tunic fastenings. “What?” He whipped around, caught sight of the weyrgirls stripping too, then slapped his hands over his eyes in horror. Oh no, oh no no no.

“Whoops,” Omoriel said quietly.

“What’s ‘whoops’?” Junpei asked, voice  _ definitely _ confused now.

“I can’t work in the same marsh as  _ naked women!”  _ Chojohrnen hissed. “What if I  _ see something? _ My Nana would kill me!”

“It’s a holder thing,” Omoriel explained to Junpei, while Lomerik patted Chojohrnen’s shoulder sympathetically, and Earl just laughed.

Junpei sighed. Then he told Earl to stop laughing and go work, Lomerik and Omoriel to please check out that promising cluster of tilting stalks to the east, and stood quietly in front of Chojohrnen until he lowered his hands again. Then he bent his head until his forehead was resting on Chojohrnen’s, keeping him focused on  _ here _ instead of looking around and panicking again, giving him a steady breathing rhythm to copy.

“I don’t…” Junpei hesitated. “I’m sorry. I forgot some places have nudity taboos. I should have checked with you, when they announced this expedition, especially since you avoid the baths.”

“Shit, you noticed that?” Chojohrnen winced. So much for being subtle.

“It’s pretty normal for fosterlings. Look. We’ve got a job to do, unless you want to fake sick and go home early. But this won’t be the last time our work makes us strip.”

“I can…” Chojohrnen took a deep breath. Shit, after everything he’d done with the Traders, why was  _ this _ what made him balk? Bribing border guards, acting as a distraction, all those jobs, all those  _ sharding _ dicks, but it was accidentally seeing girls topless that made him panic? That was stupid. It was  _ stupid _ and he  _ refused _ to let it stop him. “I can work. It’s fine.”

“...all right, then.” Junpei leaned away again, and they both stripped silently and waded into the marsh.

“Whoa!” Omoriel said, as soon as they got close. “That’s a lot of scars!” Chojohrnen would have winced or rolled his eyes at the lack of tact, but he was too busy staring back at the deep scars that slight, flighty  _ Omoriel _ sported on the side of his chest and one shoulder. Junpei said Omoriel’s older brother tried to knock him out of inheriting, but those looked impossible to pass off as accidents or pranks. “Where’d you get those?” Omoriel asked.

“Around,” Chojohrnen said shortly. He didn’t want to talk about Fax’s wardens, guard canines, or falling down a ravine. “Yours?”

“I got stepped on!” His tone was discordantly cheerful for the statement. “Junpei just got shoved.”

Chojohrnen jerked his eyes from Omoriel over to Junpei, who was sniffing oil pods to check their ripeness. Long pale scars curved around his bicep. It was...a pretty impressive bicep, actually, which Chojohrnen may have speculated about earlier when they were all fully dressed. May have thought about whether or not Junpei was strong enough to pick him up easily—

Aaand oh fuck he was staring at his dormmate’s naked arms for way too long. Fuck fuck fuck. He’d never even seen Junpei checking out  _ anyone, _ let alone other men. Don’t stare, don’t stare at guys who don’t stare back, reel it  _ in _ Chojohrnen.

“Shoved by what?” he asked quickly, and then remembered. “Oh. Baby dragons. Kitten claws on foals…?”

_ “I _ dodged,” Earl said smugly, wading over to their cluster of stalks. “It’s  _ easy _ to tell if the hatchling isn’t yours; all the riders say they made eye contact and heard a voice. If a hatchling is shoving past you without looking, it  _ can’t _ be yours.”

“I wasn’t here yet,” Lomerik said, when Chojohrnen turned to him expectantly.

Wild marsh oil gathering was just as exhausting and messy as Chojohrnen remembered. By the time everyone climbed back up the hills for lunch, he was too tired to be scared of getting in trouble for peeping at girls, and most of them were too slimed up to make out anything on, anyway. The adults loaded up their full sacks onto a volunteer dragon, with a promise to bring them back empty for the next round after lunch.

“Um, Chojohrnen?” Felena said nervously. Chojohrnen bit down on the instinct to glance over at her and kept gnawing on his lunch. “I know you don’t like talking about where you’re from…” He snorted. Wow. Took them all long enough to figure  _ that _ out. “But one of my pat-brothers married a farmhold girl he met at a Gather, and, um...no one’s really sure if you’re actually farmhold or a Trader and that’s a  _ lot _ of scars and you’re older than all the other fosterlings and I just...is that normal?”

Aw, shells. She wanted to know if her brother was okay. Chojohrnen sighed. “Well—”

“Of course he’s not a Trader, Felena, that’s  _ obvious,” _ Earl cut in. “Traders all have family names, like Lilcamp or Conal. He’s just got the one name.”

“People can  _ join _ the Traders, you know,” Chojohrnen said sarcastically. Didn’t everyone know that? Sure, outsiders got stuck with all the worst jobs, but they still let nearly anyone in, no questions asked. Not like holds that wanted to know your family for ten generations, or craft halls that thought you were stealing trade secrets.

“Ha!” Earl exclaimed in triumph. “I  _ told _ Esme you were both!” He ran off to go gloat at his sister. Chojohrnen heard Felena call Earl a rude name under her breath, and grinned.

“Is your brother somewhere that Fax controls, or right on his borders?” he asked her quickly.

“No, he’s just over in Lemos.”

“Then he’s fine,” Chojohrnen reassured her. “None of this is from farmwork, trust me.” Some of it from hostile farmholders, sure, but that wasn’t the same.

~

Junpei dwelled on the marsh oil expedition for days after it was over, worried by Chojohrnen’s near panic attack over nudity and the mess of scars. He’d seen the one on his face before, impossible to miss, and the collection on his forearms, defensive wounds from blades and canine bites. He’d very carefully not asked, respecting the prickly responses to everyone else’s curiosity.

But shells, that was so many, all over. Junpei wanted to rip time apart and bring Chojohrnen to the Weyr before the world gave him those. He couldn’t do that, so he settled for sticking by his side and staring down anyone that looked like they might even be  _ thinking _ about opening their mouths to say something nosy.

Which meant when Junpei woke up one rest day and saw Chojohrnen’s bunk was empty, he anxiously shoved on his day clothes and set out to find him without a second thought. Chojohrnen had always taken Junpei along with him when he explored. Said you needed at least two people to ward off ghosts, “or at least to carry a spare glowbasket.”

The baking crew said they’d seen Chojohrnen pass by, heading for the main entrance. Junpei paused just outside it, looking down at the first light snowfall of the season. The only thing marring the soft powder were boot prints too wide to be Chojohrnen’s, heading straight towards the Weyrwoman’s quarters. They had to be Felena’s; Weyrwoman Jora, still grieving after all these Turns for F’lon, only left the senior goldrider quarters to walk Nemorth to the feeding grounds. She didn’t even come to the Turn’s End celebrations. Headwoman Manora switched out who was assigned to take meals to the Weyrwoman’s quarters every sevenday, and right now that task went to Felena.

Junpei rubbed sleep from his eyes, and looked again. Ah. Some of the boot prints were broken at the toes or ankles, as though someone with narrower feet and wider strides was trying and failing to step where she had. The broken boot prints were all heading  _ away _ from the Lower Caverns; Felena’s return path was just as she’d laid it. Wrapping his shawl tighter, Junpei set out across the Bowl in the light flurry.

The trail never veered off to the Hatching Ground, no surprise really; Headwoman Manora had shown Chojohrnen those revered sands shortly after he arrived as a matter of course. They were off-limits once a clutch was laid, and restricted the rest of the time, but a brief tour staved off curiosity that might otherwise lead to fosterlings shirking their chores to go exploring. The Weyrwoman’s territory, however, wasn’t part of the tour. Only wingleaders and the Weyrwoman were allowed in the Records and Council Rooms, and the rest was a residence.

The trail didn’t lead to the Records Room Bowl-level entrance either. Less unsurprising, but not by much. Few holders could read, and Chojohrnen was no exception, leaving the room chock full of Weyr history no more than a novelty.

Junpei followed the footprints on the broad stone stairs up onto the queen’s landing ledge, puzzled. The Council Room was only interesting because it was off-limits. Did Chojohrnen want to talk to the Weyrwoman for some reason?

The snow cut off just inside the first chamber, replaced by a thin, gritty layer of sand over the stone. Junpei bit the inside of his cheek, trying to study the footprints, but there were so many older paths crisscrossing each other…

A soft draconic  _ snork _ made him freeze. He slowly looked up.

Nemorth, gold, glistening, and  _ huge, _ stared sleepily at him with one faceted eye. She lounged on a length of worn stone cut a meter higher than the rest of the weyr, above the sand. The eye closer to the wall was closed, but the one nearer Junpei was already half-open, and slowly opening wider. Junpei felt a low throb of curiosity hum at the base of his skull.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” Junpei said quietly, and bowed. Mild amusement joined the curiosity. “I’m looking for my friend?” The curiosity ebbed. Nemorth tilted her head a fraction, pointing one golden head-knob towards the Council Room, eyelid beginning to shut again. “Thank you.”

Chojohrnen was indeed in the Council Room, running his hands along the walls. He jumped at the sound of Junpei’s footsteps, turned, and relaxed. Junpei relaxed too, seeing him.

“Oh, good, it’s you,” Chojohrnen said. “Do  _ you _ know if there’s a secret passage in here, like that one for spying on clutches?”

“The Council Room is off-limits to anyone that isn’t a wingleader,” Junpei said, crossing his arms and leaning on the carved archway. There weren’t many  _ doors _ in the Weyr, but there were a lot of worn-down decorative carvings around entryways. “Or the Weyrwoman.”

“She’s asleep,” Chojohrnen said, only half-listening, running his hands on the walls again. He suddenly pressed his ear against the stone, thumped once with his hand, then leaned back with a sigh. “Solid. Guess I’ll have to wait for her to wake up and ask her if  _ she’s _ got any secret passages.”

“We’re not supposed to bother the Weyrwoman,” Junpei said. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at Nemorth. Chojohrnen followed his gaze and snorted.

“Right, because someone with a great big fuck-off dragon like that needs people being  _ told _ not to bother her.”

“Yes.” Junpei thought of the bronzes working together Turns before to bully the queen, and tried not to shudder.

Chojohrnen looked at him curiously, then shrugged, finally pushing away from the wall, and hoisted himself onto the council table to sit cross-legged. Then he suddenly shivered, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, over the thin jacket perfect for autumn and terrible for winter. Junpei unwrapped his shawl and tossed it over. Chojohrnen caught it, surprised, and wrapped it around himself. “Thanks.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Junpei asked.

“You had late night klah pot duty,” Chojohrnen said, shrugging. “Not gonna drag you out of bed to explore when you were up past midnight.” Junpei could swear his expression didn’t change at all, but Chojohrnen grinned broadly and said, “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll wake you up to get in trouble with me exploring the Records Room. Not until we’ve got our own dragons, though, I’m not dumb.” He waved a hand over his head, indicating the small cavern they were in. “This place is just ‘oh you silly kids’ off-limits,  _ that _ place is actually  _ off-limits _ off-limits.”

“How’d you figure that out?” Junpei asked. He glanced over his shoulder and stepped all the way into the room, walking slowly around the great stone table the Weyr leadership met at. Chojohrnen was right, no one ever got in serious trouble for coming in here, not unless they interrupted a council meeting. Maybe it had been different decades ago under ancient C’rob or long-dead S’loner, but not now.

“I listen,” Chojohrnen said. He stretched, spinning on his seat to watch Junpei, then tugged the shawl tighter around himself. “It’s not hard. I’ve been here for two months, I know lots of things now.”

“Wow,” Junpei said dryly, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch up in nearly a smile. “Two months. An eternity.”

Chojohrnen snickered. “Two months with fresh eyes. What’ve you got old man, eighteen Turns here, and still surprised by what we’ve found? Which of us jumped through the ceiling when that nesting feline in the old dorms screeched at us?”

“It was a very low ceiling and that feline wasn’t even born yet eighteen Turns ago,” Junpei said, jokingly defensive. Chojohrnen snickered again.

“Oh!” Chojohrnen said brightly, snickers cutting off as some thought struck him. “I’ve figured out how all those bets about hatchling colors work too. You’re all a bunch of perverts to outweyr folk, it took me longer than figuring out the off-limits rules to piece together  _ in _ weyr stereotypes.”

“We’re perverts?” Junpei asked. He stopped circling the table and leaned against the wall. If he remembered hide-and-seek right, this was the sweet spot to hear anyone coming up the outer stairs. If Jora came out of her weyr, though, there was no way to hear her coming.

“Perverts, loose-moraled scoundrels, corrupters of sons, seducers of daughters, ruiners of marriage prospects.” Chojohrnen ticked off the insults on his fingers. “Pern wouldn’t have any inverts if your great beasts didn’t fly overhead trailing curses and twisting people’s minds.”

“You believed that?” Junpei asked. He’d heard whispers, at Gathers, but nothing so blunt before.

“Oh, I didn’t  _ care,” _ Chojohrnen said. “I met my first dragonrider when I was seven, before I understood all that.” His gaze grew distant. “Walking around alone at Gather. Walked like...like he’d never been afraid in his life. Like no one could touch him, let alone their petty little opinions, their disapproval.” Chojohrnen swallowed. “I want to feel like that.”

Junpei didn’t know what to say to something so personal. His hands flexed unconsciously, as though trying not to drop the heavy words.

“Anyway, um.” Chojohrnen rubbed the back of his head. “What was I…? Right, right, stereotypes. I know it’s just the green and blueriders everyone thinks like men, now. Not  _ all _ dragonriders. I mean, I guess goldriders are expected to like men but nobody really talks about the Weyrwomen except to complain she’s not doing enough.” Chojohrnen frowned, hand still on the back of his head. “Dunno what they want her to do, really.” He dropped his arm and shook his head quickly, clearing the thought. Junpei didn’t know what the adults expected Jora to do either. He wished he did.

“Brown and bronzriders like women,” Chojohrnen said, getting back on topic. “At least that’s what everyone keeps saying. But they  _ do _ have sex with men if their dragon chases a green. And  _ all _ the dragons chase greens. Except the queen again. And that’s all, you know, what  _ humans _ think is going on. I haven’t asked the dragons.” He smiled sheepishly. “Still a bit nervous about bothering them.”

“Dragons are good at ignoring humans,” Junpei said. “You’ve seen the little kids climbing all over the retired ones.”

“Like kittens scaling a woolbeast,” Chojohrnen said, grinning at the mental image. His eyes grew wide. “Shells, can you imagine if dragons were  _ wooly?” _

Junpei snorted a surprised laugh through his nose, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Now  _ there’s _ a way to stay warm  _ between,” _ Chojohrnen said. He rubbed the shawl’s fringe between his fingers. “We ought to knit them sweaters.” Another snorting laugh Junpei couldn’t contain. Chojohrnen grinned triumphantly. “What do  _ you _ want, anyway?”

“Hm?”

“What kind of dragon,” Chojohrnen clarified. He uncrossed his legs and flopped back on the council table, tucking his arms under his head to stare up at the ceiling. Overhead were metal hooks for glowbaskets drilled into the stone, illuminated now by early morning sunlight coming in through holes high in the wall that old C’gan complained were “new” because a Weyrleader had them carved six centuries ago.

“The dragons decide,” Junpei said, trying to keep his voice even. Last time, the dragons decided they didn’t want him.

“Yeah, but you’ve got to want  _ something, _ right?” Chojohrnen bent a knee, draping his other leg over it, and idly twirled his foot in the air. “Or is it bad luck for the candidates to speculate? Seems like everyone and their cousin has an opinion on who’s getting what, but I guess the other boys don’t really talk about what they think  _ they’ll _ get themselves.”

Junpei let out the breath he was holding. “If I Impressed bronze,” Junpei said carefully, skirting around the word  _ want. _ Don’t be greedy, don’t be selfish, don’t put yourself before the Weyr. “I could...fix some things.”

“Yeah?”

“Gullers stole Rally’s candidate robes last time,” Junpei said, before he could lose his nerve.

Chojohrnen sat bolt upright, hands smacking down onto the table, shawl falling from his shoulders.  _ “What?” _

“She said she’d have given them back,” Junpei said. “It was a sevenday before the hatching. She wanted to sew a copy and Stand too.”

“Damn,” Chojohrnen said admiringly. “Clever.”

“She got in a lot of trouble.” Junpei sighed, ran a hand over his hair.  _ He walked like he’d never been afraid in his life. I want to feel like that. _ The confession sat there, a heavy, intimate thing, and Junpei wanted to give something back. “So. If I got bronze. I could make sure she got a chance. And Esme. Everyone.”

“Throw over centuries of sexism just like that, huh?” Chojohrnen flashed him a bright, approving grin. “You know, even if there’s a clutch tomorrow, she’d age out before you had any say in things.”

“I said everyone,” Junpei said. “Forget the age cut off.”

“Nice,” Chojohrnen said. He swung himself off the table, stretched, and made for the door. Then he spun around, scooped the fallen shawl up, and tossed it back to Junpei. “You’re a rebel!”

“A quiet one,” Junpei said, earning another laugh. They both made for the door now. “Please don’t mention it to anyone.”

“No, no,” Chojohrnen said, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’m good at secrets.”

~

Chojohrnen broke off his conversation with Junpei to watch, fascinated, as someone stole food from Esme for once. Her steaming mug of klah now rested firmly in wingleader F’lar’s hands. It had just been the three of them eating together this morning, at one of the round tables spread between the long rectangular ones like mushrooms in a garden bed, until the wingleader had shown up five minutes ago and smarmed all over her. F’lar had pulled the spare chair out and dropped down right next to Esme with a lazy grace, smiling at her like her very existence made his day, completely ignoring Chojohrnen and Junpei.

Of course once she handed over the klah Esme had promptly stolen Junpei’s from  _ him.  _ So maybe it didn’t really count as her being stolen from after all.

“See, you saw that, right?” Chojohrnen asked Junpei, pointing across the table to F’lar. He didn’t keep his voice down at all; if F’lar was going to ignore them in pursuit of flirtation and klah, he could put up with being ignored right back.

Junpei didn’t even bother looking where Chojohrnen pointed, just raised his brows in confusion. Chojohrnen sighed. One of the youngest wingleaders in the Weyr, who’s barely half a Turn older than Junpei himself, chats up his sister and he just  _ ignores _ it? Holders would’ve puffed up and cracked their knuckles before F’lar even got to the table.  _ Weyrfolk. _ Honestly.

“Why do they even bother putting thread-of-bronze on their knots?” Chojohrnen pressed on. “You can tell who the bronzeriders are by their  _ walk. _ This idiot just finished a patrol in another time zone, he’s got darker bags under his eyes than Gullers after the laundry pump broke, he’s only flirting with Esme to steal her klah, and he  _ still _ swaggered in here like some Gather bravo who’s afraid the girls will forget he’s got  _ balls _ if they don’t lead the way all the time—”

F’lar choked on a mouthful of klah. Junpei would’ve too, if he’d still had his; instead he just made a strange noise and covered his mouth with both hands. Chojohrnen entertained a split-second, delightful daydream of getting Junpei to make that noise under different circumstances, then shoved it to the back of his brain. Esme laughed at both of them.

“Be fair,” F’lar said, grinning once he’d recovered. “Most of the brownriders swagger too.”

“But none of their cords are tied in wingleader knots,” Chojohrnen said. “And those other idiots might be be trainees now, but they’ll go straight to being wingleaders, never wingseconds.”

D’nol and S’lan, the weyrbrats agreed, were going to be trainees for as long as the older wingleaders could get away with. All the wings flew light right now, each of the nine wingleaders with only thirteen to fourteen wingriders under their command. Promoting D’nol and S’lan and trying to redistribute riders evenly would knock each wing down to just ten or eleven, when the traditional minimum size was twelve.

Chojohrnen spent a few confused sevendays wondering why they were even being trained for the job at all, instead of a regular wing position, until Omoriel noticed and explained. Commands from a gold or bronze dragon came with psychic pressure that took  _ effort _ to resist. The bronzeriders  _ had _ to learn leadership, because if they  _ didn’t _ and their dragon acted on instinct at the wrong moment, things could go  _ very wrong. _

The wing situation wasn’t helped by Benden’s numbers being strange, according to Gullers. Records and commonly held wisdom put bronzes at only five percent of the population, browns fifteen. You could ignore the retired riders, survival rates long divorced from their original clutches. But eleven of the one hundred and thirty active dragons were bronze? That was way too many compared to the other colors, Gullers said. And also too few; a full fighting Weyr of five hundred dragons ought to have at  _ least _ twenty bronzes, closer to twenty-five depending on how many golds there were.

Not that anyone in Benden liked talking about gold numbers.

Meanwhile, the browns were off the other way, only eighteen active, just barely enough for each of the current nine wings to have the required two wingseconds. So if they added two new wings, with no more brownriders to spare, which tradition would they break? The one that said you needed two wingseconds, and have four wings with just one? Or the tradition of barring blue and greenriders from the job?

“We’re proud of our dragons,” F’lar said, tilting his chair back from the table. Esme rolled her eyes, and then let them rest on the tightness of F’lar’s shirt. “Browns can fly the same positions as blues, and  _ their _ cords show off their colors. Why shouldn’t ours?”

“But if you’re the only ones who can be wingleaders—” Chojohrnen started, not sure why he was bothering to argue about this. The thread-of-bronze just seemed pointless, was all.

“They’re not,” Junpei said quietly, getting the other three’s attention. And someone else’s, too; Chojohrnen angled himself away from the table a fraction, noticing an older rider pause near them. Was that R’gul? Shards. Omoriel had warned Chojorhnen which wingleaders and wingseconds were strictest about rules, and R’gul topped the list. “Brownriders have been wingleaders, during a Pass.”

F’lar frowned, then shrugged, smirking. “That’ll cheer F’nor up—”

“Where did you hear that?”

Junpei’s face froze. His back was to R’gul, who sported the clean riding leathers of someone  _ about _ to fly out, shiny bronze wingleader’s knots, and a growing scowl.

“That’s not in the duty ballads,” R’gul said, voice sterner now. Chojohrnen made himself stay still, as frozen as Junpei, because R’gul was getting angrier the longer Junpei stayed silent but he was a  _ dragonrider _ what the hell could Chojohrnen even  _ do— _ “Where did you hear it?”

“Aw, shards, R’gul, does it matter?” F’lar asked, the smirk gone, replaced with a lazy smile that  _ might _ have been an attempt to defuse the situation, and failing. “Nice to know we can train more leaders up when we’re back at full strength—”

“It’s completely improper,” R’gul said harshly.

“Weyrleader J’ash thought fighting Thread mattered more than propriety, sir,” Junpei said, turning on his chair enough to look at R’gul, voice respectful but firm. F’lar’s posture and smile didn’t change, but his eyes suddenly focused with unnervingly intensity on Junpei.

“Weyrleader J’ash lived over two centuries ago,” R’gul said coldly. “You were in the  _ Records Room?” _

_ Don’t answer that, _ Chojohrnen wanted to hiss. No answer to a voice like that would be the right one.

But Junpei had grown up in the Weyr, where refusing to answer a dragonrider’s question was unthinkable. “Yes, sir.” Just a hint of hesitation between the words. And then, Chojohrnen winced, seeing it coming, the attempt to explain himself. “I wanted to know how the Weyr prepared for Thread, before they realized this was another Long Interval—”

“They almost ruined the Weyr completely,” R’gul snapped. “Something you’ve got in common with them, if you think  _ wanting _ something is enough reason to risk  _ destroying _ our archives. Have you been trained on proper handling of the older hides and parchments? No! The kinds of light it’s safe to expose them too? No! Which ones require gloves? No! Because you are only a  _ candidate, _ and you  _ do not have permission _ to even open the  _ door _ to the Records Room!”

Junpei’s expression become more closed off with every word, as R’gul’s own grew more furious.

“I’ll have to check every one of J’ash’s logs to make sure you haven’t damaged them. Were there others? How much did you go through?”

Junpei took a moment to answer, breath coming shallow, and then named a span of Turns that made F’lar’s eyebrows go up. Chojohrnen didn’t know how detailed or long the old Weyrleader’s logs would have been, but it clearly impressed F’lar. Even R’gul looked surprised, before the anger returned.

“I’ll have to speak to the Headwoman about punitive duties for this—”

“Oh, come on!” Esme exclaimed, drawing the furious glare her way. “It was  _ Turns _ ago!”

“And for you too,” R’gul said without pause. “Since you  _ knew about it.” _

Esme crossed her arms and glared back, lips pressed into a thin line. She stayed that way until R’gul left, and then only uncrossed her arms to make a rude gesture.

“You know,” F’lar said, rising to leave, smiling at Junpei. “Wingseconds get archival training too.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “I knew you’d be good for the job.”

~

Winter fell heavily all around Benden Weyr, snow sticking thickly to the mountain range, falling more lightly in the Bowl thanks to the sheltering walls of the caldera. The wind chased the snow around inside the Bowl, leaving bare patches of grass between the snowdrifts. The biggest drift was at one end of the lake...or it  _ would’ve _ been, if the green dragons that weyred above it didn’t take such delight in rolling through it all the time. Laundry had to be strung across the communal living chambers to dry instead of hung outdoors, and Gullers spent extra time helping her mentors make sure the heat to the herdbeast shelters and chicken-weyr worked properly.

Esme talked a few young riders into carrying the younger Lower Cavern workers and the teenage weyrbrats over the edge of the caldera, to the small plateau on Benden’s northeastern face. Bundled up as warmly as they could, leaving the littler kids down below with the proper adults, everyone ran around throwing snowballs at each other, sculpting figures, and holding on fast to dragon tails as the great beasts slid down the mountainside.

Green and blue dragons leapt into snow drifts, making their riders laugh with silent complaints about the cold before scrambling back up to do it again. P’trikor’s Botaleth, one of the only browns out enjoying the snow too, wriggled down until his claws touched dirt, spread his wings beneath the surface of the snow slowly, making it shudder, then launched into the sky, showering everyone like a tiny blizzard.

Junpei laughed until he felt sick, holding Chojohrnen’s shoulder to stay upright, and pelted snowballs at his sisters. Gullers teamed up with Rishall and Tinall to build a snow-hold. They only got it half-built before Omoriel’s greenrider friend N’bast noticed the sun was going down, and everyone piled back onto the dragons to go home.

They clomped back into the Lower Caverns as a cheerful horde, shaking snow off their boots and capes, dusting mittens off before pocketing them, faces red, and laughing too much to be silenced by the scowling bronzeriders and eye-rolling women. Headwoman Manora sharply directed the girls to get their outerwear put away  _ right now, _ you’re late for serving dinner, and P’trikor’s wingleader started lecturing him about getting permission to leave the Weyr,  _ yes _ young man anything past the caldera’s edge counts!

Junpei noticed R’gul working through the crowd towards him, face set in stone, to deliver the same lecture P’trikor was getting. His stomach knotted. He didn’t want to hear how  _ disappointed _ his father was in him for abandoning the day’s chores just to play in the snow. Sanra had said taking the day off was  _ fine _ but R’gul wouldn’t  _ care _ that she said that, he’d shirked duties and that was _ improper— _

“Come on!” Chojohrnen grabbed Junpei’s hand and yanked him towards the nearest tunnel. “Come on, let’s go, you  _ just _ finished all those midden shifts, let’s go!” He scooped up a half-dead glowbasket on the way, running down an old lava path weyrfolk tried to flatten with gravel and sand. Junpei burst out in a startled laugh, too loud and unable to stop himself. R’gul would  _ never _ mar his dignity by giving chase. He’d just lecture Junpei at breakfast tomorrow.

It wasn’t tomorrow yet.

“No, no, this way!” Junpei spun them away from the fork that led to the bathing chamber and the dorms, back down the tunnel a bit to a smaller one, angled upwards. “I have to show you this!”

_ “Show me?” _ Chojohrnen laughed back. “I can’t even see you!” The glowbasket just barely kept them from running into walls.

They had to backtrack twice, checking the ancient marks carved into the walls, but it still didn’t take as long to reach the drop-cave as it had when he was a kid. The handholds were easier to reach now; Kenta used to give him a boost. Now Junpei climbed up first, then held the glowbasket for Chojohrnen before placing it on a high lip of rock.

“Be careful,” Junpei said.

“Whoa…” Chojohrnen took in the drop-cave. It was small, even compared to most of the storage closets in the Lower Caverns, just barely tall enough to stand up in. The interesting part was the circular hole in the floor, separate from the tube of rock they’d just climbed up. The hole was as wide across as Junpei’s full arm-span, and it gave a clear view of the passage below. The rest of the cave wasn’t nearly as circular, the wall waving in and out so that some places there were only two feet of stone floor between the wall and the drop, others three times that.

Junpei sat down a few feet from the entrance, hooking his knees over the edge of the drop to dangle his feet through it. Chojohrnen copied Junpei, sitting close enough to press their shoulders together.

“Are there more of these? Spots where you can...” Chojohrnen waved his hand towards the drop. “Get a look at everything below you?”

“Not that we found,” Junpei said. “Not in the Lower Caverns. There’s a few between some weyrs, but they all have carved stairs leading up into them, not just handholds.”

“Good thing that’s not a main tunnel down there,” Chojohrnen said, bracing his hand on the wall to peer down. Junpei planted a hand on his leg just in case; it wasn’t a fatal distance, but it would hurt. “I can just see Earl and Esme pranking people through this thing…”

“Earl and Esme haven’t been here,” Junpei said.

“What?” Chojohrnen leaned away from the edge again. “Who was  _ we, _ then? You and Gullers?”

“Mm-hm.” Junpei smiled at the memories, now fuzzier and softer around the edges than the dim glow-light made everything. “Gullers can’t get lost, you know. As long as she’s touching stone, she knows where she is.”

“Useful,” Chojohrnen said, impressed, not even a hint of the sarcastic disbelief he’d give that statement if anyone else had made it. “She found this cave?”

“Kenta must’ve,” Junpei said. “I thought I did, for  _ Turns, _ until I realized he’d never have let me really get lost. He always called it the drop-cave.”

“Kenta?”

“My older brother. We played hide-and-seek with Gullers all the time; we’d go get ‘lost’ so she could find us again.” Junpei could almost hear Chojohrnen thinking over the dragonrider names he knew, trying to figure out if ‘Kenta’ was already contracted or not, and added, “He’s a weaver.” It was safe to admit that. Kenta was twenty-four now, too old to Stand by all the traditional rules.

“He should weave a map of this place,” Chojohrnen said.

“Maybe he has. He said he’d weave all the eastern mountains, someday, and make the Northern Barrier Range into a shawl for our grandfather.” Junpei swallowed his sadness for that memory. He still dreamed Kenta’s voice, promising their grandfather all of Pern to wear. But B’sur had passed after Boll was forbidden to the weyrfolk, never knowing if his daughter and grandson had earned their journeyman knots.

“Hey!” Chojohrnen said, grinning brightly in the dark. “Maybe I sold some of his stuff!” He lay back on the stone floor, tucking his hands up under his head, feet still dangling over the edge. “There was a caravan on the Ruatha-Fort-Boll route ours met up with in Tillek, a couple times, and we took apprentice weaver work further north to trade.”

“Yeah?” Junpei leaned against the wall. “Tillek’s where you learned the horrible jokes Esme likes, right?”

“Nah, that was Nabol. Tillek’s where I picked up filthy sea shanties from an old pirate.”

Chojohrnen launched into one, pitched low to not carry too far, but crystal clear. Junpei laughed again, then shared a less filthy but equally punny song he’d learned at a Gather once. Chojohrnen picked up the cadence before he finished, and started making up new verses, keeping the song going longer and longer, until both of them ached with laughter, blurting out puns between each breath.


	4. Turn's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turn’s End, AAT 2493 to 2494.

Even the strictest weyrfolk couldn’t object to celebrating Turn’s End, thanks to the weight of tradition behind it. The five-day long festival began a few sevendays after the illicit snow day. Some of the eldest complained that the celebrations had been bigger in their day, dancing every night instead of just the first and last, and feasts for every meal instead of just one in the middle. Headwoman Manora waved a ladle with a scornful snort, saying in _her_ youth it was still just one feast and two dances with tall tales around the hearths, and _her_ great-great-grandmother’s youth had been exactly the same.

“We can feast every day if you want to starve the rest of the winter,” Rishall snapped, when Earl imitated one of the querulous voices to complain about the light fare prepared for the first dance. He shut up.

 _“What_ are you wearing?” Esme asked with a frown, when Chojohrnen got back from changing around lunchtime. Dancing would start in the early afternoon and go long past sunset. Instruments appeared from weyrs and dorms all day; hand drums, gitars, reed whistles. Some weyrfolk muttered about _that,_ too, about how they _used_ to have proper harpers perform for Turn’s End. Most were perfectly happy to take turns playing instruments and singing, though, so the mood wasn’t hurt too badly.

“...my best?” He’d accepted work clothes from the Weyr’s hand-me-down cupboards after arriving, but kept his Trader caravan wear. He stood in front of Esme now in his darkest blue, least patched trousers, and a comfortable brown shirt with embroidery up the sleeves to repair rips.

“You’re supposed to be _bright_ for Turn’s End!” Esme exclaimed in dismay. _“Earl!”_

Earl hustled Chojohrnen back to their dorm, scooping up Junpei and Lomerik on the way. Chojohrnen watched, bemused, as the other boys ransacked their clothes chests for anything brightly colored that might fit him.

“No time for hemming,” Lomerik said, biting his lip before setting all of Junpei’s trousers and leggings back. Most of them were plain work clothes anyway. Lomerik’s own were too short.

“Your tunics might work as long shirts…” Junpei said. He apparently didn’t have any bright shirts either, wearing a simple grey tunic over flowing, faded blue trousers, but an eye-searing yellow and teal diamond patterned vest made up for it. It was _almost_ garish enough to distract from the fact that the tunic didn’t have any sleeves, which was an unfairly good look on Junpei.

“Sash!” Earl suggested from the floor, and Chojohrnen realized with a jolt that Earl was rummaging in his travelling pack. “What’s this?”

“Get out of that!” Chojohrnen snapped, lunging sideways, but he was too late to stop Earl from opening the tiny leather drawstring pouch.

“Faranth’s Fire, why do you have _teeth?”_

“If you don’t know I’m not telling you!” 

“Earl, put them back,” Junpei ordered without looking up from laying out different shawls and sashes over Lomerik’s spare tunic.

“I will when he explains,” Earl said, grinning despite Chojohrnen’s vice-grip on his wrist.

“Put them back or I’ll tell Enid what really happened to her scarf last month,” Junpei said, terrifyingly mild. Earl and Esme’s older sister didn’t have many chores with them, her sewing specialization keeping her out of the kitchens and outdoor work. Chojohrnen had actually mistaken her for their mother Luceel for a moment when he first met her. She didn’t take kindly to ruined fabrics.

“You wouldn’t!” Earl yelped, but he let go of the pouch. Chojohrnen caught it with his other hand, nearly falling off the bunk, and let go of Earl so he could scoot away and make sure the leather hadn’t torn or cracked. Just his luck if it held up through two Turns on the road only to fall victim to a teen’s curiosity. There wasn’t much point counting the milk teeth; he’d have heard them hit the stone floor if any fell out. Chojohrnen hunched over the bag and counted them anyway, smacking Earl when he got too close.

“Try this on,” Junpei said, tossing over Lomerik’s tunic. It was a soft spring green. “Earl, go help Tinall move tables.”

Earl sulked out, and Lomerik and Junpei politely looked away when Chojohrnen shucked his brown shirt to try on the tunic. It _was_ short, but it was broad enough in the chest and loose enough in the sleeves to be comfortable, and went well with his trousers.

“Needs more,” Lomerik said.

“Mm,” Junpei agreed. He skimmed his fingers over the arrayed fabrics, plucked up one sash of blue, green, and yellow woven in fluid irregular ovals. Chojornen tied it diagonally over the green tunic, and Lomerik and Junpei both beamed approvingly.

Esme beamed, too, when they all got back to the dining cavern, and immediately pulled Chojohrnen into the cleared stretch of floor to dance. People were still moving tables and chairs to the walls of the huge cavern, but enthusiastic ameteur musicians had already started a lively tune. Junpei joined them, picking up a small drum.

The afternoon flew by. Chojohrnen danced with Felena after Esme, and then took a few turns with someone’s gitar, confidently strumming out melodies the Weyr and Holds shared, improvising when the musicians wove unfamiliar ones. Junpei spun past, little Lornaley standing on his feet as he taught her the steps.

Gullers and Rishall swept in at sunset, resplendent in matching reds and orange, like flames. They were far from the only women to dance together; most of the weyrgirls twirled each other around the floor or formed small circles for intricate hand and footwork pieces, and a few older women kept coming back to each other...but Gullers and Rishall were the most eye-catching, and Chojohrnen’s gut told him they weren’t going to dance with anyone else.

“Burning even brighter than last Turn,” Esme said, spotting them. She sat next to Chojohrnen on a table shoved against the wall for a breather, munching a breadroll. “Some of my best work yet.” She buffed her nails on her tunic.

“You sewed those?”

“Nah, I just bartered for the fabric.”

It was strange to see everyone so colorful; the weyrfolk’s daily workwear was made of tithed fabrics, mostly undyed natural colors, the only dyed lengths uneven or runny. According to Rishall, the dragonriders themselves spent so much time in riding leathers that they stopped caring what color their off-duty clothes were, as long as they were _comfortable_. “Except when they spruce up for Gathers to impress all the holdgirls,” she’d added with an eyeroll. Chojohrnen wondered if the riders really felt like that, or if they just didn’t want to admit how shitty the tithes were.

Tonight though, plain clothes were gone, leathers were gone, rank knots were gone, replaced by entire outfits as eye-searing as Junpei’s vest, metal and gemstone jewelry flashing with every gesture. The entire Weyr was crammed into the dining cavern to dance, little kids running even more wild than usual, oldfolk creeping merrily from their cavern to tap canes and shake tambourines, all more colorful than the firelizards in sailor’s tall-tales.

Focusing on _that_ strangeness helped Chojohrnen fight the persistent feeling that someone was going to get hurt, really bad, any minute now. He’d _seen_ dragonriders show each other the same romantic affection they showed women since he’d gotten here. Couples cozying up at meals, holding hands, kissing. It took a month to stop going on alert whenever he noticed the blue and greenrider couples. They were so _obvious._ Didn’t they know how dangerous that was?

Flying out to the marshes on Lamath had helped with that. Of course it wasn’t dangerous for dragonriders. _They had dragons._

The only other times he’d seen men dancing together were careful patterns before the spring planting and autumn harvest, lines and circles and ancient songs. Not laughing couples dipping one another like this was a Gather. He noticed tiny Tolley and Tollara, the younger twin siblings of his usual chicken-chore partner, freeze and stare at a pair of grey-haired riders. Shells. There’d be pointing any second now, and loud innocent childish questions drawing the adults’ attention to the pair, and then—

Tollara grabbed her brother’s hands, chattering at him, and they both started clumsily imitating the dance, tripping over their own feet from constantly looking over to see if they were doing it right. When the song ended, the riders ruffled the twins’ hair, laughing.

Chojohrnen was still smiling, stunned, when Esme pulled him into the dance floor again.

“Switching song! Come on!” Once on the floor, Esme immediately darted away into the crowd to dance with N’bast, who swung L’colm towards Chojohrnen. “I hope you know how to lead,” L’colm said, grinning at Chojohrnen, “‘cause I’m terrible at it.”

It was the longest song yet, the fastest paced, and everyone changed partners at each loud _gong_ from the kitchen’s biggest cookpot. Raucous laughter gave the musicians a run for their marks, mismatched couples tripping over each other with every change. Tinall misjudged Chojohrnen’s weight and both their momentums for a dip and nearly dropped him. Earl tried to lead bronzerider T’bor and got spun over to Lomerik before the gong. Gullers and Rishall waved mockingly from the sidelines, sipping fruit juice, tired feet resting on each other’s laps.

Chojohrnen joined them when the song ended, sweaty and giggling and lightheaded. He hadn’t quite dared to dance with anyone but the girls all afternoon, but that was...shards, that was _fun,_ moving too fast to be scared. “Is that gonna happen _again?”_ he asked them excitedly in Tillek sign. Gullers brows drew together in confusion over her smile, and Chojohrnen repeated himself in Telgar sign even as Rishall quickly answered, “Switching songs are once an hour after sundown.”

“It took Lomerik two Turns to stop sitting those out, or dance with anyone but Felena,” Gullers signed. “Looked like he’d faint, the first time Omoriel asked him.”

“Yeah, well, his parents probably said the same thing mine did,” Chojohrnen signed, remembering to use Telgar this time. Rishall raised her brows. “That the weyrfolk are all immoral perverts who corrupt good holders.” He grinned at Gullers’ derisive snort. “That’s how I knew I’d fit in here.”

Their laughter followed him back out onto the dance floor. Hubris wrested control from hard-earned caution; he sought out greenriders he knew from their grounded chores, then dragonriders he only knew by sight, spinning from partner to partner without rest until the next switching song, avoiding the girls just to show himself he _could._

Nobody glared. Nobody insulted him. No one raised fists, just open palms and clapping hands, chiming bracelets, snapping fingers.

“You’re a hell of a dancer,” his last partner for the switching song said, grinning wide. He was an older bluerider Chojohrnen had danced three times with now, someone he remembered serving klah to during a couple overnight kitchen shifts, that D’rees said was nice.

“You too!” Chojohrnen tried to say, and slapped a startled hand to his throat, parched.

“Fruit juice or wine?” the bluerider asked, eyes crinkling up with silent laughter. He slid his hand smoothly from Chojohrnen’s waist to his back, putting them even closer to slip between the other dancers and over to the long refreshments table. Chojohrnen leaned against his arm, delighted. They settled on a bench by the weyrshafts with their fruit juice— Chojohrnen had slugged down a mug of water before even _touching_ the juice pitcher —and the bluerider introduced himself. “D’nis, Aldamth’s rider.”

“Chojohrnen, future dragonrider.”

That got a laugh. “That you are! Sanra’s newest fosterling, then? The one who showed up like a tithe?”

“I am getting _really_ tired of being known that way,” Chojohrnen said, grimacing. “If the next thing you ask is how old I am, where I’m from, or some ridiculous rumor about holdfolk customs, I’m dumping this on you. And then I’ll ask all those stupid questions back, including the really horrifying rumors about weyrfolk that shocked even _Earl.”_

“Sorry,” D’nis said, holding up his hands apologetically, but still grinning. “We riders aren’t good at remembering people whose dragons can’t talk to ours, I didn’t want to mix you up with anyone else. I’m forty-eight, by the way, fostered too long ago to remember much holdlife, and rumors should wait for tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Everyone’ll share winter-fire stories while nursing their hangovers and getting ready for the Middle Day Feast,” D’nis explained. “Tonight’s for _earning_ those hangovers.”

“Scorch that,” Chojohrnen said. “I’d rather have sore feet than a sore head.” He knuckled D’nis’s arm, then pointed past him; another dragonrider lifted Felena off her feet by her hips and spun her high in the air. “Think you can pull _that_ off?”

“Let’s find out,” D’nis said, and they left their mugs on the bench to prove that the answer was definitely, fantastically, exhilaratingly _yes._

~

Chojohrnen woke late the next morning to discover that the adults were just as hungover as D’nis had predicted. Most wandered into breakfast even later than the teens, grumbling at the loud clatter of their own dishware. Late enough, in fact, that older weyrbrats ended up taking over feeding the younger ones themselves. Well, okay, _Junpei_ noticed the kids rummaging in the pantries and got them settled with real breakfasts, the other teens helping when they realized why he was taking so long to get back from grabbing the klah pot.

It was extremely unfair that conking out on top of benches and under tables produced such restful sleep and early rising, even if the little kids _had_ stopped dancing hours before everyone else. Why couldn’t Chojohrnen ever wake up so refreshed and noisy?

Early afternoon saw the older weyrbrats scrubbing the pots left to soak the night before, and preparing foods for the Middle Day Feast. It also saw the younger ones running up to everyone they knew, demanding stories and songs. It stung a little that none of them ran up to _Chojohrnen,_ peering at him from around people’s legs before choosing some other target. He’d only been snappish with the other teens, he thought, not the little kids. Was he really that scary?

Maybe they’d just noticed Chojohrnen evading questions and decided he was boring; his presence certainly didn’t stop Tolley and Tollara from badgering Junpei in the middle of peeling tubers, insisting he was the only person in the entire Weyr who could sing some old sailor’s tale right.

“I’d love to, but I have to finish this,” Junpei told them. _This and ten other things_ , Chojohrnen thought. Somehow, even hungover, the Lower Caverns workers unerringly dumped more tasks on him than anyone else. “Why don’t you ask Gullers about the Whispering Ghost?”

“We already did,” Tolley said.

“If you didn’t have to peel tubers, could you come sing?”

“Yes, I’ll sing later—”

“Thanks Junpei bye!” the twins yelled, running off. A few minutes later they came back, each dragging a familiar adolescent boy by the hand. “What’s the rush?” one of them was asking.

Chojohrnen blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. _Two_ of the boy who helped him gather eggs and chase stray chickens back to their pen stood there. “There’s two of you!” The younger kids giggled. The older two grinned. “I thought I just kept getting your name wrong!”

“Nolaris,” Junpei said, pointing to one. “Konatis.” He pointed to the other. Standing next to each other, they weren’t any more identical than Esme and her siblings were. But that was still _nearly_ identical. Toley and Tollara would have been just as confusing if their hair weren’t cut so differently.

“New record,” Nolaris said, elbowing his brother.

“Why are we here?” Konatis asked.

“You have to peel tubers so Junpei can do the sailor’s tale,” Tollara said, high voice as commanding as it could get.

Junpei sighed. Chojohrnen snickered; that _clearly_ hadn’t been what he’d meant. Before Junpei could say so, Konatis swiped his peeler and Nolaris grabbed the tuber. Tolley and Tollara grabbed Junpei’s hands and dragged him off. Honestly, if he’d just dug in his heels he probably could have picked both of them off their feet. Maybe he had sense enough to take the escape from chores after all.

Nolaris turned to Chojohrnen. “So do _you_ know any good songs?”

After peeling a ridiculous amount of tubers, Chojohrnen got a break by bringing a tray of klah and basket of breadrolls into the oldfolk’s cavern. It was tucked around a short tunnel from the baking side of the kitchen, so the backs of the chimneys always kept it warm. Retired riders who couldn’t safely get up to weyrs and Lower Caverns women who didn’t want to retire to a hold or hall, if they even had family in one, bunked here.

Junpei sat on the floor, leaning against the foot of someone’s bed, the twins from earlier and over a dozen more children listening raptly to a story. A few were snuggled up to him, a few more sitting in a half-circle on the floor, and even more cuddled with the retired weyrfolk.

“Then she said, if this is really _your_ runnerbeast, why does it have my friend’s ribbon and bells braided through its mane?” The children gasped as the oldfolk chuckled. “Well, that put the gambler in a bind…”

Chojohrnen listened as he passed around klah, breadroll basket swinging from his arm. He meant to hand those out once the klah was done and he could put the tray down, but the weyrbrats darted in quick hands and passed their prizes to the oldfolk they sat with. Efficient of them, he thought. He sat down cautiously between two of the beds, glancing over to make sure he wasn’t visible from the door. No one had assigned him a specific chore for when he got _back_ yet.

“And that’s how, by being clever and brave, Reiko won five runnerbeasts from a Bitran gambler, when her friend just wanted her own back,” Junpei finished.

“I like that story,” Lornaley said sleepily from under Junpei’s arm.

“I do too, Lornaley,” Junpei said. 

“I like _all_ the Clever Reiko stories,” a boy sitting with the old auntie on one of the beds by Chojohrnen said. “Can we hear _all_ of them?”

Wait, _all?_ There were more? Chojohrnen had never heard of Clever Reiko before now, and collecting stories had been one of his favorite things about travelling. Was she a Weyr folk figure? Or a broader Benden or even Eastern Claw one? The tithing trip up the mountain hadn’t given him much chance to hear new stories.

“Not in one day, Tegaran,” Junpei said.

“In two days?” Lornaley asked.

“Mm, not two days.”

“In a _dozen, hundred, THOUSAND_ days?”

“Maybe,” Junpei said. “Maybe not. She’s still having more adventures. It’s hard to know if we even know all the stories.”

“What you said confuses my brain,” Tegaran declared, and yawned.

“Nap time?” Junpei suggested. The listeners (including at least half the oldfolk) immediately denied that it was nap time and called for another story. “All right, one more, but then I have to see if Luceel needs me again.”

 _No, you don’t,_ Chojohrnen thought. Junpei was smiling, relaxed, had even _laughed_ a few times during his own story when the audience did. He needed to stay _right here._

“Another of my grandfather’s songs?” Junpei asked. “Or more about Clever Reiko?”

Reiko won the vote, to Chojohrnen’s delight.

“One day, a long time ago, but not so long that the world was very different, a little girl flew with her mother and father on the back of swift blue Loroth, to visit family in a seahold,” Junpei began. “Now this little girl’s name was Reiko, and her mother often said that she had more guts and wits than sense. If that’s true or not, you can tell me after you hear this tale…”

It was a cute story, Chojohrnen thought. The little girl in it had been repairing a set of her father’s riding straps as a surprise for him, and brought them with her on the family trip, finishing up on the last day.

“They’re no good at all if they don’t fit, though, so Reiko decided to ask Loroth if she could put them back on him.”

A few of the kids who’d heard this story before giggled, glancing at each other.

“Loroth knelt all the way down so that Reiko could climb into his elbow, and let her put the straps on. But they’re no good at all if the buckles don’t fit on a rider, so she asked Loroth if she could climb the rest of the way up and buckle herself in, and Loroth said yes.”

The giggles got louder.

“This was when Reiko realized Loroth had chosen a very, very, _very_ high cliff to sun himself on. Up between his neck-ridges, she could see the ocean stretch on forever, just as blue and deep and cold as the sky. There was no father in front of her to hold onto, and no mother behind her to keep her warm. Just her, Loroth, and the air. ‘Loroth’, Reiko said, still staring in wonder at the deep ocean, the wind tugging at her tunic. ‘Can we make sure the riding straps will keep someone in place while you’re flying?’ And Loroth said…”

 _“Yes!”_ chorused the weyrbrats.

The story ended with Reiko’s boots getting drenched in saltwater when Loroth glided all the way down into the bay, just as her parents got back with her cousins from a fishing jaunt. Junpei and Chojohrnen’s break ended a minute after the story did, when Earl came looking for them to help drag the tables out of their dance configuration, into the more formal arrangement for the feast.

~

Feasts always unnerved Junpei. All of Turn’s End did, at least a little, but the feasts were the worst. Dances and winter-fire days were so different from normal life that they could just be their own thing, and they were fun. But feasts interrupted that fun, dragged him back into kitchen chores, ramped them up, and changed who was around him. Nothing was normal, but nothing was _un-_ normal either. It was just kitchen chores. He should be able to handle that.

Except it was also being surrounded all day by women he usually only saw for an hour at a time at most, as everything unrelated to cooking and dishes got pared down to skeleton crews. And not seeing _any_ men working at all. He kept scanning the crowd for green shoulder-knots, wanting to know who might leave chores abruptly. But grounded greenriders only helped out in the Lower Caverns for the hours their wing was working, out on patrol or Games training. So with every wing but the lightest token patrol off-duty, why would the greenriders be given busy work? Not even F’lar’s wing was dedicated enough to practice firestone drills during a _festival._

Then there was the feast itself. The only meal in the entire Turn the Lower Caverns workers served directly at the tables, dishes set out, platters and tureens maneuvered carefully between diners. The rest of the time, they served meals from a long set of tables near the kitchen cavern, dishes stacked at one end. A few of the eldest aunties and uncles said the Lower Cavern workers used to just set the food there and let everyone serve themselves, aside from the food sent up the weyrshafts to the wingleaders’ quarters, of course. But that was a time of better tithes, before each Headwoman had to get more frugal with portions than her predecessor.

This was when Junpei would finally bump into the greenriders again. Most of them were pretty nice, and volunteered for serving shifts so more women and weyrbrats could get a chance to sit down and enjoy things. Sometimes they even dragged a few blueriders into helping too, and once, brownrider P’trikor.

Maybe if feasts happened more than once a Turn it wouldn’t feel so strange. They were _supposed_ to happen more than once a Turn. Junpei had been too young to remember much of the first Hatching Feast he attended, and a heartsick rejected candidate at his second. According to F’lar (and the records), they should have had call for a Hatching Feast every other Turn most of his life, and now be at _least_ one a Turn.

Older weyrfolk grumbled that Weyrwoman Jora was lazy, but never explained what she should be doing _differently_ , to make Nemorth rise more. Or what Weyrwoman Carola before her should have done, or the Weyrwoman before _her_. All noise and no help, his mother used to say.

The older weyrolk had a lot to say about Junpei’s mother, too, and he got to hear it all day. He didn’t think he was any busier during Turn’s End than any other time, even if it was all concentrated in the kitchen. But with everyone’s regular routine thrown off, tongues loosened by celebration, he found himself inundated by ‘compliments’ about his helpfulness and reliability...all couched as though he was somehow _different_ from his mother. He hadn’t heard so many complaints about her selfishness and irritability since the months right after she’d left.

Junpei accepted the poisoned praise with a quiet murmur of thanks and focused on his food. _He_ knew she was amazing. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

“Hey, uh, what’s eating you?” Chojohrnen asked while they washed dishes after the feast. All the younger kids were in bed, and most of the adults were still lounging in the dining cavern, telling tall tales over wine. Junpei had volunteered to help with the dishes every Turn’s End Middle Day since he was fourteen. “I was kinda distracted…” Chojohrnen had been glancing over at D’nis’s table and grinning to himself all night, which Esme was sure to tease him about tomorrow.

Junpei started to shrug, it didn’t matter—

“Setting a good example for Sanra’s newest, Junpei?” Jelally asked loudly. Junpei’s hands froze around the scrub brush, under the sudsy water, out of sight. “I was just telling Luceel, you’re such your father’s son, it’s easy to forget about your mother.”

“And I was telling you that’s nonsense,” Luceel said amiably. She smiled at both boys, a companionable arm over Jelally’s shoulders, winecask cocked on her hip, clearly on their way from the storage room back to the dining cavern.

“It’s not nonsense, he’s going to get bronze if one’s laid,” Jelally insisted. “Brown for sure, if not. Look at him! Runs around keeping all the troublemakers in line, like those brats of yours, Luceel, not a peep of complaint, and now he’s leading by example.”

“Reiko kept my brat in line and you never said _she’d_ get a bronze,” Luceel pointed out. Jelally pretended not to hear her; women couldn’t Stand for fighting dragons. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t even worth dismissing. Junpei tried to move his hands, to keep scrubbing at the plate under the water, but only managed to tighten his fists more. Luceel kept talking. “I miss Reiko, you know? Best head of bartering we ever had. Can’t get anything near as good as we used to, since she left.”

“Selfish woman,” Jelally spat.

“Psssh,” Luceel said, and steered Jelally away from the sinks. “It was a good selfish, you know?”

“No I don’t think I _do_ know, Luceel…” Their arguing voices faded into the noisy chatter of the dining hall, leaving Junpei and Chojohrnen alone in the kitchen.

“...you need me to get that one?” Chojohrnen offered, jerking his chin towards the plate Junpei was still staring blankly down at. Junpei shook his head. He’d get it. He had to. “Hell of a poker face you got.”

“The fuck is poker.”

“You _swore!”_ Chojohrnen yelped, delighted. “You never swear! Freezing shards, they _really_ pissed you off! So do you hate your mom and don’t like being reminded of her, or do you love her a whole bunch and wanna deck them? I can’t tell at all, with that face.”

“And _you’re_ never this _stupid,”_ Junpei snapped. Chojohrnen made another delighted noise, practically dancing. Junpei sighed deeply, trying to calm down. His fists finally unclenched enough that he could start washing dishes again. Chojohrnen hummed thoughtfully.

“Love or hate, hate or love, and I’m stupid for not knowing, which means you gave me all the clues…”

“You’re not stupid,” Junpei said. He took another deep breath. “I’m sorry I said that.”

“Thanks,” Chojohrnen said. “Oh! It’s the name, that’s the clue, Reiko, your mom was the little girl from those stories you told, wasn’t she?” Chojohrnen glanced over, still grinning, so Junpei nodded to confirm that part of the guess. “You love her. She’s gone off somewhere and you’re telling little kids how clever and brave she is. And that sour old fool stood here and insulted her….does that happen a lot?”

“Not as much as it used to.”

“Hm.” Chojohrnen went back to humming for a few minutes as they scrubbed. Then he looked back up with a grin. “You should tell me another of those stories! Or, you know…” His grin softened. “Just tell me about her. If you want.”

Junpei paused, surprised. Then he shook himself a little; Chojohrnen went looking for secret passages and asked the weyrbrats just as many nosy questions back as they asked him. Of course he’d be the first person to ask Junpei about his mom in...well, ever.

“A long time ago,” Junpei began, deciding on the story Benden Weyr hadn’t heard since B’sur passed. “But not so long that the world was very different, the daughter of a bluerider and mother of a candidate discovered her son had a true, deep love for weft and weave, not wind and wing. Her name was Reiko, and she set out to steal her son the perfect future…”

~

With no feast to prepare for, just the light snacks for the final night’s dance, all the weyrbrats had a lot more free time on the fourth day of Turn’s End. Now was the day longer tales came out, and contests between tellers, and friends dragged in to do extra voices. Junpei sat through one of Earl’s ghost stories about the empty Weyrs so the half-dozen little kids listening could pretend they weren’t scared, just worried _he_ was scared. Then through one of Omoriel’s rambling, half-remembered farmhold tales, which were always hilarious because Lomerik knew stories just close enough to steer him back to the big plot points, but different enough in details to get confused.

Chojohrnen wandered around, listening in for a few minutes at a time, moving on or lingering at some impulse known only to him. Junpei waved him over to the hearth that the three eldest greenriders favored when they left their cavern.

“Chojohrnen, these are the Aunties,” Junpei said. “They’re hoping you’ve got new stories.”

“Aunties, hm? Chojohrnen asked quietly, taking in the green cording on their shoulders. “Sounds like there’s a story _there.”_

“One older than you,” Z’lin said, one withered hand lifting from his lap quilt to poke Chojohrnen’s knee. “And old stories have to be _earned.”_

“Earned with new ones?”

“Ha!”

“Isn’t that Kenta’s belt?” X’toq asked, peering at the bright sash Chojohrnen had worn every day of the festival. Chojohrnen glanced down at it, then at Junpei.

“My mother’s,” Junpei said. “Kenta made my vest.”

“One of those apprentice pieces M’kel brought back from Boll,” Q'cheten said. Greenrider M’kel had been in the same wing as Junpei’s grandfather B’sur before B’sur retired, and used to visit Boll to check in on Reiko and Kenta for him.

“This is apprentice work?” Chojohrnen asked, surprised, fingers touching the sash. “It’s good enough for journeyman.”

“Well,” Q'cheten said, withered shoulder rising in the barest hint of a shrug. “Boll was banned before either of them made journeyman. So it _must_ be apprentice work, mustn’t it?”

“Ah.” Chojohrnen snagged a spare chair, then sat in it backwards so he could rest his arms on the back, and his head on his arms. “I suppose solving one mystery gets you one story, at least.” He grinned. “How about Cloaked Robin?”

“I haven’t heard one of those in _decades!”_ Z’lin exclaimed. “Speak up so we can all hear it, if you’d please.”

“Once upon a time,” Chojohrnen began, walking his fingers along one arm. “There was a young man that couldn’t bear the holds or crafthalls, and ran away to live in the forest.” He sat up straighter as the story went on, gesturing broadly to illustrate scenes, at one point rocking backward so swiftly Junpei had to catch the chair before he could fall off.

Cloaked Robin the Holdless helped a young apprentice tanner named Cecil escape a bad situation in Crom, and travel all the way to the Mastertanner Hall in Igen for justice. Along the way they picked up a wrestler named Little Jon and a Lord Holder’s daughter named Marian, and stole from an over-tithing Lord, giving the goods and harvest back to the smallholders rather than keeping it for themselves or selling it.

Junpei had never heard anything like it; someone living happily without Weyr or Hold or Hall to shelter in? Even the holdless bandits of other tales had the goal of taking _over_ some hold to call their own, and the pirates had deep secret coves. But Cloaked Robin lived fearless and free. It was terrifying. It was fascinating.

“Do one where Robin’s disguised at a Gather, next,” Z’lin said, when the story was over. “Those are the best ones.”

“Another?” Chojohrnen asked. “Don’t I get one of _your_ stories first?”

“Not yet,” Z’lin said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I’m heartbroken.” Chojohrnen put his hand on his heart and rocked back on the chair. Junpei stuck his hand out again, just in case. “I tell you all about Cloaked Robin rescuing poor Apprentice Cecil, and I don’t get a story out of it?”

“Come visit us some time,” Q’cheten suggested. “When it’s not the fourth day of Turn’s End and we haven’t been wheeling ourselves back and forth so much.”

“Oh!” Chojohrnen thumped the chair back down. “I can do that! But right now…” He craned his neck around for a moment, looking over his shoulder, then turned back to smile apologetically at the Aunties. “I can hear a dozen stories and songs I don’t know yet happening around me, so if you don’t mind waiting on Robin…”

“You two go have fun,” Z’lin said with a grin, and the other greenriders pulled a hand each from their own lap-quilts to waved the boys off. Chojohrnen spun around a few yards away to blow Z’lin a kiss, making all three of the Aunties laugh and blow kisses back.

~

Last Night was always more frantic than the entire rest of Turn’s End, everyone determined to fit in a last bit of fun before going back to work. First Month would see the wing reassignments finalized, and kick off intense Spring Games training.

Junpei borrowed one of Gullers’ anklets to chime as he danced, and Rishall pressed both of hers on Chojohrnen, saying they were too loose on her. All of the jewelry in the Weyr was centuries old, repaired more than once, cobbled together from multiple broken pieces. No one had gifted trinkets with the tithes since the Eighth Pass ended, and hardly any weyrfolk bothered to barter for it at Gathers when there were more important things to get.

“Gotta make all the noise we can to wake up the New Turn,” Rishall signed, while Chojohrnen shook the anklet by his ear curiously. “Wait until you hear the dragons bugling!”

Junpei didn’t take the time to sit and watch people tonight, instead dancing or playing drums for every song, making his body _move move move._ He danced with his sisters, and their friends, and tripped A’jellan when the brownrider tried to kiss Felena. He beat out rhythms on the drum and didn’t stare at Chojohrnen dancing with D’nis. Why would he stare at them? Candidates and dragonriders danced together all the time, it wasn’t anything new.

“Are you playing drums all night, Junpei?” F’lar asked with a smirk, leaning against the edge of the table Junpei sat on with greendriders M’kel and D’rees. The top laces on F’lar’s tunic hung loose. Memories welled up at the sight, flashes of F’lar shirtless, wrestling, jogging, oiling Mnementh out by the lake. Junpei looked away, angry at himself, frustrated by the stupid fascination with the bronzerider’s muscles and charisma that he didn’t feel for anyone else, anyone _nicer._ Unfortunately, looking away just drew his attention to Esme sauntering out of a back corridor with a smug expression.

“You’ll disappoint the girls if you don’t dance,” F’lar said, smirk growing even more obnoxious.

M’kel twanged a few experimental notes on his gitar, debating the next song. “They’ll be more disappointed with no music to dance to,” he said laconically. He was in his fifties, and a familiar face to all the weyrbrats, breaking up fights and soothing short tempers whenever Daleth’s heat week grounded them.

“He danced earlier,” D’rees added, flicking his fingers towards F’lar in a _shoo_ gesture. He was half M’kel’s age, quick to smile or snarl. “You were busy.” He lifted his reed pipes back up and launched into a new song, M’kel and Junpei jumping in a second later. F’lar shook his head and left. Two songs later, though, the youngest rider of his wing, blue L’rad, cheerfully took over drumming. Junpei found himself on the dance floor during a switching song. He tried to just catch girls’ hands at each gong, most of them willing to dance follow, until he could make it to the edge of the crowd and sit down.

Earl stood near the refreshments table across the dining cavern, frowning, swaying a little on his feet. That was never good; Junpei almost stood up, but sitting down without an instrument in hand had made his entire body realize how exhausted it was. Earl would ask for help with the premonition if he needed it. A moment later Earl shook his head, sidled over to the wine casks he wasn’t old enough for while looking around suspiciously, filled a goblet, splashed some deliberately on his shirt, and downed the rest in one gulp.

Definitely not good.

Chojohrnen stumbled over before Junpei could convince his legs to stand up. “Whoa, shit, I haven’t seen you sit down _all night!”_ Chojohrnen spun one hand through the air. “Without drums, I mean, the musicians sit. Are you okay?”

“Don’t like switching songs,” Junpei said with a shrug. He stood up, stretching. The song was over and he wanted to _move,_ no matter how tired he was, and ought to check on Earl.

 _“What?_ But they’re so fun!” Chojohrnen grabbed Junpei’s hands and skipped backwards, pulling him onto the dance floor. “This one’s not switching, so it’s not a problem, right?”

His earnest, hopeful expression did something strange to Junpei’s chest. “Yeah,” Junpei said, adjusting his hands to the lead position without pulling them free. Whatever Earl was up to, he’d just have to handle it on his own. “Not a problem.”

Chojohrnen was a fantastic dancer, going with the flow, egging Junpei on to try trickier moves. Nimble, quick, and somehow anchoring Junpei to him even when just connected by two fingers at the ends of a spin-out. Snapping back together, the sweat from dancing all night reached in and grabbed Junpei’s brain. He blushed. Why was he noticing how Chojohrnen _smelled?_

The song ended. Chojohrnen tried to switch their hands around, trade who led and who followed. Junpei let go and stepped back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t know how to follow?” Chojohrnen asked, sounding disappointed. A slower, quieter song started.

“I learned,” Junpei said. He scanned the dance floor, not wanting to see if Chojohrnen looked as disappointed as he sounded. Esme was laughingly beckoning brownrider T’sum to an unlit corridor, working her Turn’s End energy out in her own way. Greenriders N’bast and L’colm were pulling Omoriel and Tinall into a pattern-dance, and Tinall was leaning out of it to wave at Rishall and Gullers. Earl idled by the musicians. “I just. Don’t like it.”

It was hard enough keeping himself under control all the time, doing all the tasks around the Weyr that needed doing even when he just wanted to run around the Bowl or jump in the lake, keeping his emotions off his face so no one could accuse him of anything, not flooring anyone outside a wrestling match even when they really, _really_ deserved it. Letting someone else decide what his body was going to do, control the momentum and the sharp stops, was just...it was...he _hated_ it.

Chojohrnen was silent for a few seconds. Junpei saw him shrug from the corner of his eye. “Okay. I like both, so I’m gonna—”

The music spiked in a horrible, discordant shriek. Everyone turned to the musicians just in time to see Earl shove wingsecond B’don away from Enid.

“She doesn’t like you!”

B’don scowled, getting his balance back, and reached for Earl’s shoulder. “You’re drunk, lad, calm down—”

Earl lunged closer and kneed him in the balls. A wave of sympathetic wincing and malicious laughter rippled through the dining cavern. Enid covered her furiously flushed face, shaking her head. Another shove sent B’don to the floor, and D’rees yelled, “Kick him again!”

The wingleaders would have intervened then, but Ellenra, watching the waterclock, shouted it was almost midnight. Everyone streamed outside to scream at the stars. Omoriel and Lomerik ran over, urging Chojohrnen to come hear the dragons bugle in the New Turn. Junpei turned away, rubbing at his own face angrily, and helped Enid walk Earl back to the dorms.

“Hate Turn’s End,” Earl mumbled, half-turning to press his forehead against his mat-sister’s shoulder. “Everyone’s drunk. Too many paths. Can’t _tell—”_

“I had a handle on it,” Enid said firmly. She was five Turns older than Esme, seven older than Earl, and knew all the right nerve points to bring a man to his knees. “You know better than to endanger the dragons. It’s lucky you’re drunk or Sh’xsa would be after Mom to make you foster outweyr for this.”

“Nobody dies from gettin’ kicked in the junk.”

“If his head hit a table too hard on the way down…”

“...oh.” Earl’s head slumped down. Junpei patted his back. “Sorry. I’ll...think of something else, next time.”

“No, you won’t,” Enid said. “Leave it be.”

“But—”

Whatever complaint or defense Earl had was drowned by the titanic bugling from outside, signalling that the new Turn had begun. A single green shrieking her challenge wasn’t loud enough to echo too far inside the Lower Caverns, but every dragon in the Weyr, raising their heads to the sky and calling out at once?

That could wake the stars themselves.


	5. Winter, Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early AAT 2494, Winter, Early Spring.

A couple sevendays into the new Turn, N’bast and L’colm came _hurtling_ down the tunnel to the laundry cavern. “Omo! Omo! We’re in a wing! K’ban picked us!” Omoriel threw himself at his friends, shrieking in delight, sending his empty laundry basket flying. Chojohrnen picked it up and raised a questioning eyebrow at Junpei. The two greenriders had turned sixteen before Turn’s End, hadn’t they? And all the wings complained about flying light, why’d it take so long for them to get picked?

“C’gan was threatening to hold them back,” Junpei explained, as Lomerik and Tinall rushed past shrieking too. “And being in the weyrling wing for the Games is dead boring.”

“Ah.”

“We get to go on _patrols!”_ N’bast yelled, voice echoing down the stone tunnel. He let go of Omoriel, only for Tinall and Lomerik to immediately grab his arms and start spinning.

“Come on,” Junpei said, taking Chojohrnen’s hand to urge him past the laughing teens. “Lunch is going to be crazy.”

“It’s always crazy here,” Chojohrnen said, but he let himself be tugged. Junpei had been withdrawn for a few days after Turn’s End, not that anyone else seemed to notice. It was nice having him back to normal.

“Wing re-assignments always start in late spring, once the Games are over,” Junpei said. He let go once they were past the tiny crowd. Chojohrnen barely resisted the impulse to grab his hand again. “But they’re not final until the end of First Month. If K’ban’s added the two youngest greens to his wing _today,_ it’ll likely kick off all the last minute swaps.”

Behind them L’colm tried to list all the other riders and dragons in their new wing, talking so fast the dragons’ names were getting contracted almost as much as their riders’. 

“Swaps that the wingleaders have been planning half the Turn,” Chojohrnen mused. “And putting off so their rivals will be surprised?”

“Mm-hm.”

Junpei was right; the dining cavern buzzed with talk through all of lunch. Wing re-assignments were an even better source of gossip than mating flights and romantic drama, in the Weyr. Even with just N’bast and L’colm’s assignment known for sure, rumors and speculation flew. Chojohrnen listened raptly to the unImpressed teens and Lower Cavern workers rapidly analyzing riders’ and dragons’ skills, styles, and inter-team dynamics. Esme kept getting up to chat with people at other tables, carrying her plate with her. Rishall smiled fondly at Gullers, who arranged her meal into different configurations to explain the best possible wingriders that _she’d_ pick, if she were a wingleader.

 _Gullers stole Rally’s candidate robes,_ Junpei had told him. Whoever Rally was. Chojohrnen listened to her impossible plans for the perfect wing, and thought that it really sucked the Weyr was just as sexist as most Crafts. Weyrgirls couldn’t even study alongside husbands; a forge didn’t care who pumped the bellows, a gitar didn’t care who strummed it, but dragons had _one_ rider.

Esme stopped at a distant table in direct line of sight, and a moment later someone waved. Chojohrnen blinked. Oh, it was D’nis! He looked around himself quickly, then waved back. They’d flirted a few times over the past couple sevendays, but never seemed to have time for long conversation. There had to be something he could do about that.

As lunch wound on, it became clear that the adults around them were too invested in the speculation to shoo the younger workers back to their chores. Chojohrnen turned to Junpei and asked, “What’s that weyrling wing you mentioned?”

“The _worst,”_ N’bast said, before Junpei could answer. “The Spring Games are supposed to keep the Weyr ready for Thread, which means we gotta act like the dragons need firestone, even though nobody’d use it ‘cause it’s so dangerous, and it doesn’t grow on trees so if we used it up practicing, what if we didn’t have enough for _Thread—”_

“Wait, shit, firestone can _run out?”_ Chojohrnen asked in alarm. Everyone outweyr said Thread was gone for good, but then used it in all the scariest winter-fire stories, chided kids to do chores faster so Thread wouldn’t get them. There _had_ to be enough firestone!

“There’s plenty,” Junpei said quietly. Chojohrnen sighed in relief.

“Yeah it’s fine,” N’bast said, waving one hand so fast Tinall’s hair ribbons waved too. “But in a real Fall they’d have all the weyrlings who could bringing sacks of firestone from here to, you know, _wherever,_ and chucking ‘em all heroic like at the wings, and catching empty sacks to bring back. So we gotta do that. With bags of boring normal rocks that the dragons gotta spit out.”

 _“And,”_ L’colm added, leaning around Tinall. “We have to go back to the valley the next morning before the new round starts as soon as sun’s up and collect all the stupid rocks again since they _don’t_ get eaten.”

“So...what happens when there’s no weyrlings?” Chojohrnen asked, right into a lull in conversation. The brief silence grew longer, uneasy. N’bast and L’colm were the last ones, weren’t they? Who was gonna chuck sacks of rock around this spring?

“...riders thinking about retiring volunteer,” Gullers said. She moved a few roasted tubers around her plate. “They always do, since we never have enough weyrlings for a full support wing. It’ll just be all retirees and no weyrlings, this time.”

“Yeah, it was only you two and a couple others left last Turn, wasn’t it?” Rishall asked, getting affirmative nods from the young greenriders in response. She turned to Chojohrnen. “Weyrlings can’t join the support wing until the rider’s fourteen, the dragon two, and both of them cleared by the Weyrlingmaster.”

That was news to him. “And you have to be sixteen to be in a real wing, right?” he asked. He vaguely remembered that from an earlier chat.

 _“And_ have served at least one season in the weyrling wing,” Gullers said with a nod. “The Weyrlingmaster can advise against choosing you if he thinks you’re not ready. C’gan’s stricter about safety than our last one, for all he’s more flexible on everything else, and he _did_ hold back some of the older weyrlings. But the wingleaders have final say unless a Weyrleader vetoes their choice. And we don’t have one of those right now.”

“Hey!” N’bast said brightly, beaming across the table at Omoriel. “You should help us pick weyrs!”

“What?” Omoriel dropped a breadroll, startled.

“C’gan says we gotta leave the barracks now,” L’colm explained. “Since we’re not weyrlings anymore.”

“Yeah,” N’bast said. He drummed his fingers on his chin thoughtfully. “F’nor and those two bronzes will have first pick of the ones with weyrshafts, but Neesuth wants to be near the lake anyway.” It didn’t speak well of D’nol and S’lan that their own clutchmate wouldn’t call them by name. “Be nice not to be stuck in the barracks with them anymore.”

“Doesn’t F’nor already have a weyr?” Chojohrnen asked. Someone walking around with wingsecond knots couldn’t be a weyrling anymore. No surprise the other two were still in the barracks though, with their strange trainee status. Maybe F’nor was a trainee wingsecond.

“Leaving the barracks is a ‘whichever is later’ thing,” L’colm said. “Turning sixteen, or graduating to a wing. It’s just usually only the second ‘cause you can’t _be_ in a wing until sixteen. And it’s not instant. We got time to pick some place out.”

“What, F’nor get in a wing underage or something?”

“Yep,” Gullers said. She eyed her uneaten tubers, then started skewering them with her belt-knife. “If you’re bronze or brown and someone’s mentoring you, you can start competing in half the rounds of the Games at fifteen. That’s how F’lar snapped his pat-brother up as wingsecond last Turn, before any of the other wingleaders could think to claim F’lon’s get.”

“Has he settled on another wingsecond, yet?” Rishall asked. Gullers shook her head. Rishall turned to Chojohrnen before he could ask. “F’lar’s got the highest standards, after Sh’xsa, hasn’t kept any brownriders more than one Turn. It looks like F’nor’s staying, but everyone’s sure he’ll switch T’sum out soon. We’ve got bets on who’ll get that spot this spring.”

“He wants Junpei for that job,” Chojohrnen said unthinkingly.

 _“Reeeally?”_ Rishall grinned at Junpei. “Is _that_ why he’s brought tasks straight to _you_ lately, instead of bothering the rest of us?”

Junpei flushed and stared at the table. Huh. Interesting. He hadn’t flushed like that back when F’lar flat out _told_ him he’d make a good wingsecond. Avoided looking at him, actually, now Chojohrnen thought back to it. Did he... _like_ F’lar? No, everyone said he was getting brown or bronze, never even mentioned blue, and they’d known him a lot longer than Chojohrnen had. Maybe F’lar liked _him_ and he felt weird about it…?

No, that didn’t make any sense either. F’lar was one of the most obnoxiously straight men Chojohrnen had ever met (and he’d met a lot of them). The Weyr gossips said he never lingered in that privacy chamber after a mating flight, leaving to find a Lower Caverns woman to reassert his sexuality with after Mnementh caught a green. He sure spent enough time with Esme—

Ah. That’d do it. Junpei felt weird about his sister’s sometimes-lover campaigning to get him in his wing. If any of Chojohrnen’s sisters were in the Weyr, he’d feel weird about that too.

~

It took Junpei an embarrassingly long time to figure out that these new, confusing feelings he had for Chojohrnen were physical attraction. It was like being sixteen all over again, when he’d gone from only _theoretically_ understanding his peers’ interest in sex to being bafflingly fascinated by F’lar. This should be a relief, shouldn’t it? That he could feel this for a friend, not just his childhood nemesis whose ego was too big to even realize Junpei disliked him?

It was not a relief. It was bewildering.

Why had it kicked in _now?_ What was so special about dancing? He’d danced with hundreds of people in his life! Esme always said attraction was there from the get-go, when you first met someone, if you were going to be into them. Gullers said the same thing. Why hadn’t it been there with Chojohrnen? At least with F’lar it made sense to take so long, growing up together. Was it going to keep happening, more and more people suddenly becoming mesmerizing when he was trying to get work done?

Junpei threw himself into his chores, deciding the best way to deal with this attraction was to ignore it. Saying anything felt like a terrible idea. He liked being friends. He’d watched enough candidates and weyrgirls lose their friendships to be terrified of doing the same. And what if it went _away?_ He wished the feelings for F’lar would.

No, he just...just had to keep it to himself. Not make it anyone else’s problem.

Besides, Chojohrnen was flirting with bluerider D’nis every time they ran into each other. Had started casually asking about D’nis’s schedule, to make running into him more likely, and D’nis had been subtly asking the same of Chojohrnen’s. They traded jokes, compliments, anecdotes about their days.

It looked a lot like what Esme did when she was debating sleeping with a new person, though the longest stretch she’d ever gone between noticing their existence and either making out or rejecting the idea was three sevendays. Chojohrnen and D’nis were still just flirting far past that.

Chojohrnen came away from each exchange of banter looking delighted, like it had made his day, and the sort of disbelief of someone who’d just had a run of unexpected good luck.

Which was why it was such a shock when he ditched midday dish duty to ask Junpei’s advice two months after the Turn’s End celebration, on one of the few days their afternoon chores didn’t line up. Junpei was collecting all their dorm bedding to launder; Chojohrnen pulled back the heavy embroidered curtain to their dorm, looking around nervously for anyone else, and leaned back into the corridor to look over his shoulder before coming all the way inside.

“Junpei, I gotta ask you a _really_ stupid question,” Chojohrnen said. Something in his voice put Junpei on alert; an anxious, unsure edge, like when he’d first come to the Weyr and asked about canines. Chojohrnen was supposed to be washing dishes. Luceel would chew the ear off anyone who skipped dish washing. Junpei stopped tugging sheets of the mattress and turned towards him. Before Junpei could even make a questioning sound, Chojohrnen started pacing between the bunks, hands going up and down, running through his hair, tugging it, gesturing all around himself.

“I know you’re not the right person to ask and I’m _sorry,_ you’re the right person for everything else, but everyone says you’re getting brown and I know what that _means,_ now, so I’m sorry that is awkward, but I can’t risk Esme messing with me on this one, I just _can’t_ , and obviously Rishall and Gullers wouldn’t know, girls are so much _subtler_ than men, Faranth knows everyone else is just, is just _babies—”_

Junpei listened silently, alarmed by Chojohrnen’s flailing hands, his anxious tone. Kept his own posture as relaxed and unthreatening as he could.

“Normally I wouldn’t even need to ask, I mean, I’ve spent _Turns_ getting good at this, figuring out if someone thinks I’m fuckable, shells I just— I don’t— does D’nis actually _want_ me? Or is he just—?”

Chojohrnen spun on one heel, facing Junpei, hands clenched up into fists, face all scrunched up in a way that made Junpei want to hug him.

“Just what?” Junpei asked, sitting down on one half-stripped bunk instead, to make himself look smaller.

“I don’t know!” Ch’joh dug his fingers into his hair and kept pacing. “Messing with me, testing me, setting me up to— to—”

“You’ve been flirting since Turn’s End,” Junpei said, He’d been trying to ignore that, too, worried that if he thought about the flirting and his own feelings at the same time he’d...he didn’t know what. Something stupid. Something that made life too complicated. “And he’s a bluerider. He’s interested.” Some of the brown or bronzeriders might make a joke out of holder assumptions, flirting with candidates or the men delivering tithes for a laugh, but the green and blueriders _meant_ it.

“But flirting’s _all_ we’ve done!” Chojohrnen cried. “It hasn’t even been lewd! Double-meanings in a lot of it, but it’s all just...he complimented my _hair cut_ for Faranth’s sake, not one single word about my ass, nothing he can’t _deny_ is flirting. Can’t back out of and leave me to get my ass kicked if _I_ say something too— He hasn’t tried to kiss me, or do more than touch my arm, or suggest we take our chats somewhere ‘without prying eyes’.” Chojohrnen’s hands, unclenching to make the Telgar hand-sign for quoting someone, shook as badly as his voice.

“And this is the Weyr!” Chojohrnen went on. “I know now most of what I grew up hearing is bullshit, but you _do_ tolerate inverts here, not just as a _concept_ but as _actual people,_ who— who _fuck,_ and kiss, and— and— and hold hands for hours in the middle of the dining cavern! Am I...fuck, Junpei, he’s _really hot_ and I _want_ him but he’s not doing anything about it and I can’t— I can’t just— do you know what used to _happen_ if I hit on someone who didn’t want me back?”

Chohjornen burst into tears, hands flying up to cover his face, stepping backward until he hit a bunk.

 _Oh no._ “It’s okay…” Junpei reached out, half standing, not sure if it was a good idea or a _really bad one_ to touch Chojohrnen right now. “It’s okay, nothing’s going to happen, D’nis likes you but even if he hated you nothing would happen, nothing bad’ll happen, Chojohrnen I _swear_ you’re safe here—”

Junpei touched his elbow. Chojohrnen flinched, but then flung his arms around Junpei and sobbed into his shoulder. Junpei stroked his hands down his back, making the soft quiet noises he would for Omoriel after a nightmare, or Gullers when the world was just too frustrating.

“Shit,” Chojohrnen said after a few minutes, sobs abated, voice still shaking. “That was embarrassing.” He didn’t let go, though, or lift his head up, so Junpei just kept stroking his back. “Fuck, I’m gonna be in so much trouble for skipping dish washing.”

“We’ll tell Luceel I asked you to help with laundry,” Junpei said. He couldn’t fix the rest of the world, but he could do this.

Chojohrnen snorted, then stepped back just enough to brace his hands on Junpei’s shoulders and look him in the eyes. “Did I just hear you suggest _lying_ to an adult? Actually _lying?_ Not just that ‘oh no I didn’t see anything’ bullshit when Omoriel sneaks out—”

“Chojohrnen, will you help me with the laundry?” Junpei cut in, grinning.

“You _fucker.”_ Chojohrnen took another step back and smacked his shoulder. “Yes, of course Junpei, I will help you with the stupid laundry.” He grabbed a sheet at random to throw in the basket one-handed, wiping at his eyes. “If _you’re_ sure D’nis is into me, he must be, but why in Faranth’s name hasn’t he _done_ anything about it?”

“He’s probably waiting for...something,” Junpei said slowly. If Chojohrnen needed him to think about his love life, then by the First Egg he was _going_ to. Even if his sisters would be much better at it. “For you to make the first move, or maybe for you to turn...eighteen? That’s adult for most holders, isn’t it?” Weyrboys stopped being candidates at twenty, but the girls just sort of sauntered into womanhood when no one was paying attention.

“No, making journeyman or getting married is adulthood, out in—” Chojohrnen cut himself off, which Junpei was used to by now. At least it was the normal secretive cut-off, not the frantic kind from a few minutes ago. “It was twenty-one some places the Traders passed through, sixteen in others.” He grabbed another sheet. “I...overheard some of D’nis’s wingmates teasing him for flirting with a candidate, instead of sticking with other dragonriders. They said they were surprised a holdbred kid didn’t faint at the thought of two men being together. Maybe he’s waiting for me to Impress?”

“Could be,” Junpei said. “But it’s not like the other dragonriders are waiting for the women they flirt with to Impress.”

“True.”

“What do _you_ want?” Junpei asked, once they’d gathered all the sheets and pillowcases. The tunnel to the laundry chamber was only lit by half-dead glowbaskets, keeping them both from having to see each other’s faces clearly. Forget whatever D’nis wanted; he had enough Turns under his belt to accept rejection with grace, if Chojohrnen decided this wasn’t fun anymore.

“Scorched if I know,” Chojohrnen said. “Guess I’d better think about it. Not like either of us are going anywhere.” He froze. “Shit. Freezing Rains, _shit,_ I didn’t even think about that. We’re _not_ going anywhere.” He giggled, a hint of the earlier hysteria in the sound. “No wonder he’s taking so long. Everybody else knew I was leaving in just a few days! Well, not when…”

The giggles died, and Chojohrnen swung the laundry basket into Junpei’s side gently. “Do me a favor?”

“What?” Junpei asked. _Anything,_ he didn’t say.

“If...if there’s not a clutch, and you leave…” Junpei tensed, but Chojohrnen didn’t see in the darkness. “Pick a craft, okay? Or just stay here. Don’t hold-hop.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s shitty is what it is.” Chojohrnen went quiet until they reached the laundry room, and then wouldn’t look at Junpei as they started working. “It’s showing up without any references, trying to convince paranoid people to let you work for food and a corner to sleep in, some of ‘em chasing you off before you can even ask, some of them getting _pushy_ without having the decency to spell out what they’ll give you for what they want.”

He heaved up the big laundry stirring pole and shoved at the wet mass forcefully, his panic from a few minutes ago transmuted into anger. “Fax’s guards are fucking awful but at least they cut clear deals. They’d take a smaller cut of profits or goods if you jacked ‘em off, maybe even not take _any_ cut if you offered head. Sit back and let the wagons pass without inspection if you—” Chojohren shoved too hard and splashed soapy water all over the floor. _“Shit.”_

“I’m sorry,” Junpei said, feeling sick and useless. He pulled some of the dry sheets waiting to be washed out of the basket, throwing them down to mop up the spill.

“Not your fault I suck at laundry.”

“No, I meant—”

“Don’t,” Chojohrnen said sharply. “It was a job. It was reliable. I was good at it.” He took a deep breath and kept working. “I was good at fighting, too. Some guards didn’t take bribes, or distract easy, and things went wrong. And I’d still take any day on the road over hold-hopping. Okay? Pick a craft if you have to.”

Junpei thought about Chojohrnen sleeping with his belt-knife on all autumn, waking up swinging a fist. Even now the knife stayed under his pillow. “Okay.”

“Good.”

~

The snows thawed faster than Chojohrnen expected, but not as fast as he’d have liked. The Weyr went just as stir-crazy during the winter as holds did, and the wing re-assignments were only a brief distraction from the rising tension over Nemorth not, well, _rising._ He hadn’t even _met_ Weyrwoman Jora, just watched her from afar, and he still felt bad for how harshly people talked about her.

Even Junpei got frazzled by the end of the season; winter-fire stories and indoor games could only keep kids occupied for so long, and with head-colds sweeping the adult population and interfering with the chore roster, he kept taking on more work than he should. Chojohrnen and Esme both tried to tell him to turn down assignments, give himself a _break,_ but the nearby Lower Cavern workers would just chide _them_ to be more like _him_ and take on extra chores too.

Damn it all, Chojohrnen hated not being recognized as an adult. He’d _earned_ that, and now it seemed nobody was going to listen to him until he Impressed a dragon. He started spitting prayers into the Wind that Nemorth would rise soon; if he got a dragon he’d be able to stay, and if _Junpei_ got a dragon he’d _have_ to take better care of himself, for the hatchling’s sake.

The _second_ that Luceel murmured to Sanra that maybe it was warm enough now, after all, the younger weyrbrats threw themselves outside into the slush and started up a huge, muddy, too-many-kids-in-a-pile wrestling match that nobody bothered to break up. Making the kids help with the resulting laundry _might_ have discouraged them from doing it again, but then the next day the older weyrbrats and the younger dragonriders started up the one-on-one matches, and if there was one thing you couldn’t do in a Weyr, it was stop weyrbrats from imitating dragonriders.

...okay, there were _hundreds_ of things you couldn’t do in a Weyr, but this was the one currently making laundry duty an absolute disaster, so it was the one that mattered.

“Hey, isn’t that your admirer in there?” Esme asked, elbowing Chojohrnen when he stopped halfway between the chicken-weyr (where Gullers was fixing up the outdoor run) and the herb garden (where old Olivia was directing younger women in pre-spring tasks) with the feline who kept getting in Gullers’ way draped over his shoulder. It was finally warm enough to only need his old jacket, if he wore long sleeves underneath. The feline needled the jacket, purring.

“Yeah.”

The older dragonriders had joined in the matches about a sevenday after they started, so D’nis and one of the wingleaders were stripped to the waist and trying to pin each other. Chojohrnen shielded his eyes, earning a _meow_ of disapproval at the pause in petting. Ah, D’nis was wrestling R’gul, that uptight wingleader who had chewed Junpei out for harmless curiosity. Chojohrnen scratched behind the feline’s ears. Maybe D’nis would make R’gul eat mud.

“Ugh, he’s fighting Dad,” Esme said, wrinkling her nose.

“I thought your dad was a brownrider?” He could have sworn she mentioned it once.

“Yeah,” Esme said. “And one’s a bluerider, and one’s bronze.”

What.

She pointed to the wrestlers. “That one.”

_What._

“And he’s got a permanent _stick up his butt._ Do you know how hard I worked to memorize all those dirty satire versions of the duty ballads? And did he appreciate my hard work? No!” She threw her hands in the air, startling the feline so that Chojohrnen had to soothe it all over again. “It’s just ‘Esme that’s improper’ and ‘Esme that’d disrespectful’ and ‘Esme I am trying to plan patrols, stop singing that’.”

“...you have three dads,” Chojohrnen said. Shards, he’d _finally_ gotten the hang of all the weyrbred kids calling each other ‘pat-sib’ or ‘mat-sib’ and looking _confused_ if you said ‘half-sib’ instead and even _more_ confused at ‘full-sib’, but he was _pretty sure_ they still all only had one blood mom and one dad each, and sometimes foster moms.

“Yeah, three, and Earl and Enid both have zero.” Esme reached up to scratch the feline under its chin, getting it to purr louder. “Mom says there's no point keeping track if they won't change diapers or risk spit-up on their riding leathers. But that’s old news. It’s _so_ old news. You know what’s new news? D’nis crushing on you. You should get over there! Don’t spar with Dad, he’s even better than Junpei, but if you spar with P’trikor or Lomerik it’ll be fun! You can show off. Didn’t you say you were in the Gather wrestling matches, sometimes?”

Yeah, when he’d still been a farmboy and no one had tried to kill him yet. “I’m out of practice.”

“Perfect!” Esme elbowed him again. “You can ask D’nis to help you get _in_ practice.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Chojohrnen said flatly. She didn’t need to know _how_ bad of an idea.

“What is?” Gullers asked, coming up on his other side with a toolbox cocked on her hip. R’gul finally pinned D’nis, drat, and N’bast bounced into the circle to spar with another greenrider. They were both pretty bendy; Esme whistled appreciatively.

“Junpei!” R’gul waved from the edge of the circle. Esme, Gullers, and Chojohrnen all spun around in surprise (the feline went _merp!_ and dug its claws right through the jacket) to see Junpei stop just inside the main archway to the Lower Caverns with a basket of dry towels from the recently re-strung outdoor laundry lines. “Come help me teach!”

Junpei quickly set the basket down next to the archway and damn near _sprinted_ across the muddy grass. Chojohrnen stared. What the _hell._ He knew all chores could be postponed if a dragonrider asked you to do something else, but Junpei actually looked _happy_ at being called over. He never looked happy about postponing chores. Just the same polite neutral as always. This was _weird._

“Fucking bastard,” Gullers muttered.

“Um,” Chojohrnen said, because even the people complaining about the Weyrwoman hadn’t used language _that_ strong. “Um?”

“Dad does this _every time,”_ Guller said, glaring at the wrestlers. They’d split into two groups, the regular sparring circle still going, and another one circled up around Junpei and R’gul. And, wait, hold up, she called him ‘Dad’ too? He’d thought Esme and Junpei just acted like siblings because Reiko had fostered her when they were little, but Junpei and Gullers, at least, _looked_ like each other, and he knew _her_ mom was herbalist Sanners, not the vanished Reiko, which meant—

“That’s Junpei’s _dad?”_

“Duh,” Esme said. “I could’ve sworn we told you that.” She puffed up her chest and put on a pompous tone. “Bronzerider R’gul, he’s a real leader that one! Stepped up to lead the council when F’lon died, won the Games three Turns in a row, taught all the bronze weyrlings the duty ballads!” She slumped back down with a sigh. “I better go get those towels in. They’ll be at this for a while.” She coaxed the feline off Chojohrnen’s shoulder and slouched off with it purring in her arms.

Over in the second circle, Junpei and wingleader R’gul had stopped demonstrating wrestling moves and were now helping other young men practice, correcting as needed, with all the same patience Chojohrnen had grown used to from Junpei, and never would have expected from the bronzerider angry about indulging curiosity.

“I don’t think I’ve even seen them _talk_ before,” Chojohrnen said. And he’d been here almost half a Turn! “Not unless you count getting lectured to hell and back for reading old records.”

“That’s because Dad only bothers with us when he’s pissed or we’re _useful,”_ Gullers said angrily. “It’s mostly just showing off to other wingleaders and seconds, that we’re tall and strong and know the duty ballads front to back, making him look like a successful father and hope they don’t remember Rally—”

“Rally?”

“—but sometimes he really does want actual help with something, like fixing up a broken heat vent…” she drummed her fingers on her toolbox “...or showing a new wingrider the _right_ way to mend riding straps, or teaching wrestling. And Junpei falls for it _every. Damn. Time!”_ She kicked a clump of weeds for emphasis.

“That’s… _fuck.”_ It was far from the worst job of fathering he’d ever seen, and he _knew_ that Junpei wasn’t in danger of being kicked out right this minute if he stopped being useful, but he still felt like stomping over there and punching R’gul in the face.

“Yeah.”

“...Junpei’s mentioned Rally before. Said you stole his candidate robes. Who was he?”

“Our older brother.” Gullers kicked another clump of weeds. “Turns out that being tall and strong and knowing all the duty ballads front to back means _jack shit_ when every single hatchling likes some other candidate more than you. There were twenty-fucking-four eggs in that clutch and Rally was _seventeen_ and he’d never get another damn chance and _none of them picked him_ so he _left_ and now everyone acts like he never _existed.”_

“...oh. So if Junpei doesn’t—”

_“Yeah.”_

The thought of Junpei aging out and leaving made Chojohrnen’s stomach knot horribly. Junpei would never pass as anything but weyrfolk, brought up short again and again by holder norms. Even if he _wasn’t_ queer everyone would _think_ he was, he’d be in just as much danger as Chojohrnen had ever been, and so much worse at watching out for it. No, Junpei _had_ to stay in the Weyr. Chojohrnen would make sure he did. 

Somehow.

Gullers turned back towards the Lower Caverns. “Come on, if we don’t get out of here I’m gonna throw my whole damn toolbox at Dad, and that’d be hell to pick up out of the mud.”

~

The first really sunny day of spring saw Junpei, his sisters, Rishall, and Chojohrnen take advantage of a break in their schedules to go soak their feet out by the lake. Junpei lay on the grass-dotted sand with his arms tucked up under his head, half asleep, listening absently to the others chat.

“It’ll be withies first, it’s always withies first,” Rishall said, getting an affirmative murmur from Esme. “But do you know if it’s slamberries or nut fruit after that?”

“Mm, probably nut fruit?” Esme splashed her feet thoughtfully in the water. “No one’s said for sure, though.”

“Said for sure about what?” Chojohrnen asked.

“You know how Headwoman Manora’s been checking that map of hers,” Rishall said. “And muttering about expeditions? And how a lot of the girls have been paying a _lot_ of attention to that, and to each other, and dropping hints to some of the dragonriders that helping out would be a nice chance for sightseeing?”

“...uh, no?” Chojohrnen said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Esme huffed loudly. “Shells, I cannot _wait_ for you and D’nis to stop dancing around each other and just fuck already.” Chojohrnen laughed, and kicked his feet to splash Esme. Rishall scooted further away from them both.

Junpei idly moved his feet back and forth over the warm sand, keeping his eyes closed. With the realization that there wasn’t any _rush,_ Chojohrnen had just kept flirting unhurriedly with D’nis. It made him happy. Happy was good. Junpei resolutely drew his thoughts back to Rishall’s comment about gathering expeditions. “None of the riders’ve been picking up the hints this Turn,” Junpei added quietly. “Too tired from Games training.”

“Pff,” Esme said dismissively. “That’s what they get for caring more about a dumb contest than us cuties.”

“...so,” Rishall went on.“Almost everyone in the Lower Caverns goes on a bunch of fruit and grain gathering expeditions every spring and summer, partly because Manora _never_ trusts the tithing trains to be big enough, but mostly to keep everyone from going stir-crazy.”

“Like when we got the marsh oils?” Chojohrnen asked.

“Less messy than that,” Esme said. “Well, usually. And we’ll be going in smaller groups, not everyone all at once.”

“Do you want this explanation to take all day?” Rishall asked. “Because it could. You two could keep splashing water at each other and getting my tunic wet and asking dumb questions.”

“My questions are never dumb,” Chojohrnen said airily.

 _“He’s_ the one splashing everyone,” Esme said.

“Shells, whatever.” Rishall sighed loudly. “The riders too old for the Games take us, and the girls who like some of the active riders try to talk them into carrying people too, because it’s one of the few times you can really get some privacy, if you go gathering far enough away from everyone else.”

“Gullers and Rishall got together the first time at one,” Esme said, and Junpei could almost _hear_ her lewd grin. He definitely heard when Rishall smacked her arm. “You should talk D’nis into carrying baskets or something,” Esme suggested. “He’s still in the Games, but his wingleader has to give him a break _sometime,_ and if neither of you makes a move when we’re miles and miles and _miles_ away from the Weyr, you never will.”

“Thanks,” Chojohrnen said, a grin in his own voice.

The conversation swung back to which expeditions might happen first; with over half a continent available to the weyrfolk, “in-season” was a nebulous concept. Junpei drifted further into a doze, until loud, happy voices and running feet chased the sleepiness away.

“Rishaaaaaaaaall!” Tinall and Omoriel stumbled as the grass changed to sand, and bounced on their toes to stop from falling into the lake. “Rishall Rishall Rishall—”

“Tinall, _what?”_ Rishall flopped backwards to look up at her mat-sister. Junpei pushed himself upright.

“Benden _and_ Lemos _and_ Bayhead are holding their first spring Gathers tomorrow!” Tinall said, still bouncing. “And we heard some wingleaders say they might as well give all their riders time off for it so we don’t have to worry that no one can take us!”

“Yeah, but do _we_ get the time off?” Chojohrnen asked cynically.

“Yep!” Omoriel said. “Ellenra is tallying everyone’s hours up right now.”

 _That_ got everyone’s attention; Benden Weyr might get most of their supplies from tithes, but it wasn’t very fun to attend Gathers without a single mark to call your own, and not everyone could earn them through the sports contests. The bronze council considered selling dried dragon dung to farmholds beneath the Weyr’s dignity. The rest of the Weyr thought hazy ideas of dignity weren’t worth passing up hard earned marks. Headwoman Manora and Ellenra, her unofficial second in command, official head of baking, carefully tracked all of the children and teens’ hours doing volunteer midden-duty, and always passed out their earnings from the dung sales the night before a Gather.

“We’re gonna watch all the races,” Omoriel went on, trying to tick things off on his fingers, hands fluttering too much for him to keep track. “And some of the archery contests, and L’colm wants a bubbly pie and N’bast wants to find more beads, and we’re gonna see which beastherders will let us pet their woolies.”

“I wish I still had my bow,” Chojohrnen said, groaning. “Lemos has _great_ archery prizes.”

“Aren’t their prizes just more arrows?” Rishall asked, frowning.

“Yes…?”

 _“Make it a date!”_ Esme hissed, poking Chojohrnen in the shoulder. “Forget berry-picking. Go find D’nis, and invite him to a Gather. It’ll be _romantic.”_

“Uh…” Chojohrnen looked to Junpei. “Is that...safe?”

“Benden and Bayhead are used to weyrfolk,” Junpei said, drawing on all his memories of Gathers, and every time he’d eavesdropped on the wingseconds that scouted them. “Lemos is hit or miss. But if anyone gives you trouble, D’nis will ask Aldamth to talk to the other dragons, and send their riders to you. Just remember to wear your candidate knots.”

“Huh.” Chojohrnen thought that over for a minute. Esme had turned away to talk with Gullers about plans for the Gather. Omoriel and Tinall were still chatting with Rishall. Chojohrnen nodded to himself and stood up. “All right. Yeah. Fuck. No. Yeah, I’m asking him.” He pointed down at Junpei. “We only live once, right? Gotta _live.”_

~

“Gather, gather, it’s a Gather Day,” Esme sang off-key, tying her scarf tight while she waited for P’trikor to check all of Botaleth’s passenger safety straps. “No work for us and Thread’s away!”

“For the love of little eggs, sing something else,” P’trikor groaned. “I’ll have that stuck in my head all day!”

“All... _Gather_ day?” Esme grinned. P’trikor groaned louder.

“Cloaked Robin went a-gathering,” Chojohrnen sang. He’d been grinning near non-stop since asking out D’nis. “A-gathering he went, his hair tied high and his bow strung low, to steal the marks well-spent.” He waved to Junpei and Esme before ducking under Botaleth’s wing to go find Aldamth.

“Everyone remember the rules!” Manora called out, hands on hips as she surveyed the youths mounting up. Most of the older riders, their weyrmates, and friends had already left. “Don’t tease the holders, be back at the field by sunset to fly home, and absolutely NO SPARRING if you’ve Impressed!”

“Yes, Headwoman!” everyone called back.

Chojohrnen found blue dragon and rider by a clump of wildflowers he’d never seen before coming to Benden. He raced the last few yards, coming to a sharp stop on his toes. “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” D’nis said, smiling, the same surprised and happy expression he’d made when Chojohrnen asked him on this date. “You ready?”

“Almost!” Chojohrnen surged forward, kissed D’nis right on the lips, and fell back down on his heels. “Now I’m ready.”

D’nis laughed. Then he scooped Chojohrnen right off his feet to give him a boost up Aldamth’s leg, which was. Um. Pretty damn great.

A loud bugle cut through the air before they could launch; rider, passenger, and dragon alike swivelled their heads up to see brown Botaleth circling back down to land again, neck scrunched up in draconic embarrassment.

“Bet they’ll get banned from a second Gather for trying to go today,” D’nis speculated. “Poor lads. C’vrel’s nearly an unforgiving wingleader as R’gul.”

“Why were they banned from _this_ one?” Chojohrnen asked, confused. Didn’t all the Holds have to be declared safe before they could go anyway?

“I heard something about snow,” D’nis said.

“...whoops,” Chojohrnen said. With most of the dragons in the air, he could see a couple greens and a blue on the ground also getting a scolding from a sturdy bronze, just going slightly grey around the muzzle. He also saw Esme tip-toeing away. “Can we wait a minute? Esme needs a lift, now.”

“What do you think, Aldamth?” D’nis asked, leaning down to scratch the blue’s neck. Aldamth hummed. “He says a few more minutes makes no difference to him.”

“Thanks, Aldamth,” Chojohrnen said. He made sure C’vrel and his bronze were still focused on their wingriders, and waved to Esme. She waved back and ran over, pulling herself up quickly and strapping herself on.

“You’re going to Bayhead, right?” Esme asked. “Can you drop me off in Lemos first? I’ll get a lift home from M’kel.”

“No problem,” D’nis said.

 _A little problem,_ Chojohrnen thought, as they launched. It meant going between three times in a day, instead of just two. He squeezed his eyes shut when D’nis started the count. It couldn’t help with the cold at all, but he could pretend the darkness was less deep, with his eyes closed. _I hope this is less scary with my own dragon._

Aldamth came out of _between_ over a high stone wall in Lemos, landing next to cliffside stairs for Esme to descend. In Bayhead he chose a field instead, gliding away to sun with other dragons on the bluff once D’nis and Chojohrnen dismounted.

D’nis kept his hand on Chojohrnen’s back, leaned in to kiss him again. Chojohrnen froze, hyper-aware of the Gather stalls several dragonlengths away. D’nis’s lips never made contact, the older man noticed his tension, drawing back cautiously. “Are you okay?”

“People,” Chojohrnen said tersely. No one was even on this side of the stalls, and the ones visible between them weren’t paying attention. Dammit. Fuck them. He was _weyrfolk_ now. “No. Okay. I can do this. I just.” He grabbed D’nis’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Is this okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” D’nis said, squeezing his hand, smiling. “We’re doing whatever you want today.”

“I want...to see if anyone here makes seaberry cookies,” Chojohrnen decided. He took in a deep breath of the salt air blowing across the field from the bluff, and started walking. “But we can play lookeeloo at all the stalls on the way. Did you want to do anything?”

“The sports contests are always fun to watch,” D’nis said. “And some of my friends will be in the dancing ones.”

“Yeah?” Chojohrnen asked, curious. “Let’s watch that, then.”

D’nis led the way to a big square between stalls, with casually dressed harpers testing the tune of their drums along the edges. Wait. No. That wasn’t harper blue cording, that was _rider_ blue, and there was D’rees testing his flute, green cording on his tunic stirring in the sea breeze. A half-dozen dragonriders stood further into the square, stretching their limbs out and joking with each other.

“Ah, D’nis!” a greenrider waved, still stretching. “We’re going to beat the pants off Greystones for sure this time!”

“We’ll be cheering you on,” D’nis said. Chojohrnen pressed against his side when the first beat of the drums drew a small crowd from their haggling to watch. The dance team was _good._ They weren’t anything like the pattern-dancers Chojohrnen had seen in the Midlands and Western Claw, and despite being an even number, never split into couples. They spent half the dance in the air, balancing one foot on someone’s hip to hold someone _else_ up by one hand, jumping, flipping, throwing each other with ease.

Despite the newness, it felt strangely familiar. Chojohrnen’s brain churned as he watched, trying to place it, until they finished up with a bow and a team of sailors entered the square, their own musicians chatting briefly with the Weyr’s drummers and flutist.

“They practice by the lake, don’t they?” Chojohrnen asked D’nis, getting a grin. “That little strip of land on the southeast shore.” It was nice to actually be close enough to see what they were doing.

“Sure beats wrestling, L'deni always says,” D’nis confirmed cheerfully.

They watched a few more rounds, as the Greystones sailors were replaced by a team of local Bayhead dancers, and then the dragonriders were up again.

“Let’s find the baker’s booths,” Chojohrnen suggested, when the dragonriders finished their second performance. He and D’nis slipped out of the crowd, and further down the walkway Chojohrnen spotted a familiar figure he never would have expected so far south. “Is that…?”

“Hm?” D’nis asked, shielding his eyes to look where Chojohrnen was.

“Come on,” Chojohrnen said, tugging D’nis’s hand and turning his walk into a jog through the other Gather-goers. “I think that’s— I don’t know _how_ he got down here—”

“Who…?”

“Benifer?” Chojohrnen called out. 

_“Chojohrnen?”_

“Faranth’s Tits, it is you!” Chojohrnen let go of D’nis’s hand to pull Benifer into a hug, both of them laughing from surprise, and then pulled back to look him up and down. Clothes not covered in mine-dust, face looking properly fed for once, apprentice sailcloth-weaver knots on his tunic. Shells, all of that was such a relief to see. “How in the hell did you get out of Crom? Is your dad doing better? Is that a new leg? It looks great!”

“Don’t ask, yes, and thanks.” Benifer cocked the leg in question out; it was a nice prosthetic of wood, metal, and leather. “Smith-healer says he’ll give me a discount on the next one I grow into, if I bring this one back in good shape.”

“That’s a sure thing then, isn’t it? You always did take good care of your tools. Come on, let me introduce you…” Chojohrnen kept one hand on Benifer’s shoulder and spun to the side, gesturing towards D’nis. “D’nis, this is Benifer, my old trading caravan went through his mine and the nearby Gathers a few times. Benifer, this is D’nis, Aldamth’s rider…” He hesitated on the words, then steeled himself, because this _wasn’t Crom,_ and Aldamth wouldn’t let anything happen. “We met at Turn’s End.” He took D’nis’s hand again. “We’re on a date.”

“You’re boyfriends?” Benifer half-whispered the word, glancing over his shoulder.

Chojohrnen followed the look. “Don’t tell me your uncle came all the way over the mountains too,” he said. That would just be awful.

“Shells, no.” Benifer shuddered. “My parents told him they were marrying me off to a nice, hardworking girl in High Reaches. Just, you know, habit.”

“I hear you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Benifer,” D’nis said, holding out his free hand to shake Benifer’s. He didn’t even blink at the missing fingers. Good. “We were just on our way to the bakers. Care to come?”

“Ah, sure!” They took off walking again. “Surprised you’re not on the other side of the Gather, man, that’s where the archery contest’s at.”

“I had to give up my bow,” Chojohrnen explained. “No projectiles in the Weyr. Not even slingshots.”

“That’s insane!” Benifer leaned around Chojohrnen to address D’nis. “Chojohrnen _always_ does the archery contests at Gathers.”

“When a fight doesn’t find me first,” Chojohrnen said with a sigh.

“Not like you wouldn’t find a fight yourself if one didn’t find you,” Benifer said.

One of the bakers _did_ have seaberry cookies. Chojohrnen cheerfully paid for a batch for all three of them to share, while Benifer got fruit drinks from another stall, and D’nis claimed a table for them. D’nis _could_ have gotten the treats for all of them; traditionally, since they earned no marks, and served all of Pern, dragonriders could simply ask crafters for whatever they pleased, and get it for free. Chojohrnen figured that was a fast way to piss off the local crafters.

“Did you really get into fights at most Gathers?” D’nis asked, accepting a cookie. Chojohrnen nodded, shrugging. He was good at fights. “And the Traders didn’t mind?”

“Not if I picked ‘em halfway across the Gather from the caravans,” Chojohrnen said. He bit into his own cookie. _Fresh_ seaberries, oh, this was a _really_ good day. “Fax’s bullies thought fights were funny, and if they were busy laughing at me, the Traders could make proper deals without ‘em trying to take a cut. Worked in High Reaches too. Not Nabol, though, their Warden keeps a tighter leash on everything.”

D’nis frowned. “If that man needs wardens to run his Holds for him, he shouldn’t have them.”

“You’re telling _us_ ,” Benifer said, rolling his eyes. Chojohrnen rolled his, too. D’nis was nice, and pretty smart, but dragonriders were...kind of clueless. He took another bite of cookie instead of saying that aloud. “When are you lot going to _do_ something about him anyway?” Benifer asked, accusatory. “Not that we aren’t grateful for what you _have_ done!” he added hastily. “But it’d be better if we didn’t _need_ the help…”

“F’lon was adamant that Fax be stopped,” D’nis said, and sighed wearily. “I don’t know why the council hasn’t taken action. I’m sorry.”

“Does your council know he’s just taking whatever he wants, instead of true tithes?” Benifer asked.

“If they don’t, they will after today,” D’nis said firmly.

“Good.” Benifer held up his hand, to show off the three fingers he was missing along with his leg. “You can tell them it’s making me and a lot of others too pretty for our own good. We’d _never_ have reopened that mine shaft if we hadn’t been desperate.”


	6. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2494, Spring.

“You’re lucky to’ve met me at Turn’s End,” Chojohrnen told D’nis, the sarcasm of the words covering up his nerves as he kissed D’nis on the cheek between statements. Over half a Turn at the Weyr, with a table full of green and bluerider couples, and kissing him openly still felt like a taunt to the world. “Because I’m not feeling very charitable to you dragonriders right now.”

“Faranth, neither am I,” D’nis groaned, getting a laugh from the rest of the table. The Spring Games were in full swing, and the entire Weyr had lost its damn mind. The riders were exhausted, the Lower Caverns workers were exhausted, even the _kids_ were exhausted, yet every evening the dining cavern managed to fill up with endless talk of the day’s competitions, and more annoying still, how this _somehow_ reflected on the bronze wingleaders’ Weyrleader potential.

“I mean, why the Games? Why does anyone _give_ a shit about the Games?” Chojohrnen asked. Esme, cuddled up at the end of the table with one of the blueriders that liked girls, made a loud noise of agreement around her breadbowl. She often took meals with dragonriders she liked, instead of with her siblings, but since he’d started... _stepping out_ with D’nis, Esme had made a point of eating with Chojohrnen, “so you don’t miss any weyrbrat gossip.”

“The Spring Games keep us sharp for Thread, lad,” L'deni, one of the oldest greenriders at the table, said. He was in D’nis’s wing, and one of the competitive dancers. “A wingleader who can get us through the Games intact can get us through a Pass.”

“But none of you agree about Thread, either,” Chojohrnen said, rolling his eyes, and settled back to eat as the rest of the table erupted into their well-worn arguments.

Was Thread coming back? Was this the last gasp of a Long Interval? The dawn of a Thread-free Age? Was the bronze council right to focus on appeasing Lord Holders, or should the Weyr exert its authority and scour the greenery from their courtyards? What had happened to all the other Weyrs? Which wingleader should they support, when Nemorth rose again?

D’nis carefully wrapped an arm around Chojohrnen’s waist, and Chojohrnen leaned his head against D’nis’s shoulder to silently say he liked that. If Chojohrnen had stiffened or even simply been unresponsive, D’nis would’ve pulled his arm away again. He seemed content for Chojohrnen to set the pace for everything, including little public signs of affection like this, not pushing at all, which was bizarre. Nice, though.

“Hey,” Esme said suddenly. “Should we be worried that none of the bronzeriders are here?”

“Wondering when you can sneak off with F’lar again?” the bluerider she was cuddling asked with a smile. He made to tweak her nose, and she batted his hand away.

“No, but all of them going off to their little council chamber at once always means we’re going to get _another_ dumb rule handed down, or they’re going to add some surprise to the Games. I want to know which.”

A thoughtful silence fell over the table for a moment, and then L'deni snorted. “I bet I know what it is.”

“Oh?” Esme prompted.

L'deni dropped his elbow onto the table so he could plant his cheek on his fist and grin at her. “What’s been happening less frequently?”

“Not laundry, that’s for sure,” Chojohrnen muttered.

Esme snapped her fingers. “Shells! We’re getting a synch-up?” L'deni just grinned broader. “We are! I _thought_ I’d seen more of you helping with chores the last few days. Ha! Maybe the new girl will finally feel it like the rest of us.”

“Hm?”

“She means Anjali, S’ten’s weyrmate,” Chojohrnen said helpfully. R’gul’s wingsecond had caused a brief flurry of gossip by bringing a cute holdgirl home with him after scouting out the Telgar Gathers. Anjali spent a sevenday working general chores like everyone else until Sanners came down with a cold, giving Anjali the chance to prove her still-room skills to head herbalist Olivia.

“They’re a bit silly here,” Anjali had told Chojohrnen calmly while they washed dishes together, before that chance came. “They seem to think holdbred people only learn a craft once we formally apprentice. How in Faranth’s name do they think we _choose_ what craft to take up, if we never learn a thing about it before entering the Hall?”

“Right?” Chojohrnen had agreed. “I swear, when I told Luceel I already knew how to mend clothes, she looked like I was trying to pass chicken eggs off as firelizard shells! She went over all my work for a _month_ before admitting I can really sew! A _month!”_

Now Chojohrnen tilted his head up D’nis’s shoulder to ask what a synch-up was.

“You’ve noticed some sevendays see a green or two rise every day, and then we get nearly a sevenday clear and a half-dozen or so rising together?” D’nis murmured back. Chojohrnen nodded. “Synch-up’s when about a dozen fall into heat at once, which tends to trigger a few more early. There’s usually another quiet sevenday, after.”

“Every wing’s got at least two greens grounded right now,” L'deni was telling Esme. “Any other time of the Turn the patrol cycle means there’s enough boys around to give our girls a good showing, but during the Spring Games? They’ve had to give other riders time off, so the retired dragons aren’t forced into the air to stop a burnout.”

“Wow, must be tough competing short-handed,” Esme said sarcastically. “Especially when you’re practicing for _Threadfall._ Wings _never_ fly short-handed _then.”_

“Heard F’lar point out just that to M’ridin yesterday,” D’nis said. “Thinks we ought to bring back F’lon’s old trick of retired riders on the side-hills tossing dice to assign random ‘casualties’ who have to sit out the rest of match.”

“That’s not F’lon’s trick, he got it out of the records,” Chojohrnen said without thinking. “Used to be standard.”

“...where’d you hear that?” the bluerider with Esme asked.

 _From Junpei, who wasn’t supposed to be in the Records Room. Whoops._ “Around.” Chojohrnen shrugged. “So if F’lar thinks short wings is better practice, why are they holding a meeting?”

“He’s just a baby,” L'deni said dismissively. “A very stubborn one, with potential, but if the other wingleaders want to postpone the Games until the synch-up happens and we get all our riders back, he’s not going to be able to talk them out it.”

~

The Spring Games only stopped for two days, the bronzeriders arguing long enough that it was almost pointless. They probably should have stopped for three days, to give everyone involved in the mass mating flight the chance to recover; the first day back saw more mistakes and injuries than all the earlier matches put together. Rishall commented dryly, stitching up a young blue dragon’s scratched leg, that dragonmen were known for their heroics, not their good sense.

Junpei honestly just wanted the Games to be over already. They were only going to matter if Thread came back, and he could list a dozen better ways to serve Pern during an Interval off the top of his head. Sharing the patrol and survey logs with the Holds and Crafthalls, maybe. Taking passengers and messages, getting healers out regularly to those isolated smallholds Chojohrnen met through the trading caravan. _Anything_ to get real barter marks, or tithes paid from gratitude instead of duty, so the Headwoman wouldn’t stress so much every autumn.

But none of those ideas would matter unless he Impressed like he was supposed to.

Junpei also wanted the wings to get back on their staggered patrol schedule so their meals wouldn’t all be at the exact same time anymore. Chojohrnen still breakfasted with his dormmates, but he joined D’nis for lunch and dinner every day now. And Junpei couldn’t even be annoyed at D’nis for it because Chojohrnen had cheerfully invited Junpei along too, so it was only Junpei’s own feelings of awkwardness keeping him away. Chojohrnen was _happy._ Junpei needed to stop being so selfish and get over it.

At least they still had all their afternoon chores and some of the morning ones together. Like today, with everyone outside doing laundry. It was normally washed in a ventilated inner cavern, then hauled outside to dry whenever it was sunny, or strung through another cavern when it wasn’t. The Spring Games always produced enough to warrant a temporary wash station set up by the drying lines to cut down the back and forth.

N’bast bounced over, one arm linked around Anjali’s, the other waving excitedly then sweeping broadly. “Anjali, this is my friend Omoriel and his friends Junpei and Esme and Chojohrnen. Omo, everyone, this is Anjali. She stitched up Neesuth and didn’t get shouty about it!”

No one needed the introduction, the weyrbrats and Anjali both already familiar with each other. They all smiled, waved, and said “Nice to meet you!” anyway. N’bast had come out of the synch-up with bruises, withdrawn into himself the rest of the day, then come out of _between_ in the wrong spot in the next match. If he’d walked up with Headwoman Manora on his arm and introduced her as the first Lady Holder of Fort, everyone would have bowed and kissed her hand.

“You can sit here,” N’bast told Anjali, patting her arm before letting go, pointing his toe at a laundry barrel someone had knocked over earlier. Anjali swept her skirts to the side and sat, feet perfectly placed to keep the barrel from rolling. 

“She’s not allowed to do laundry,” N’bast declared. He joined Omoriel at a rinsing station. With Neesuth grounded with an injury, N’bast was right back on the chore roster, as if she’d never finished her heat at all. “Olivia says anyone _that_ good at brewing shouldn’t touch this stuff.” He made a disgusted face at the soap in the next tub over.

“Wish I’d learned to brew,” Chojohrnen said, with a wink to Anjali. She giggled. It was a very cute sound. Junpei smiled, and pretended not to notice Esme looking at him. “What brings you out here with us humble launderers, princess?” Chojohrnen asked her.

“What’s a princess?” Omoriel asked N’bast quietly, but the greenrider could only shrug. Junpei didn’t know either, though he’d heard Chojohrnen calling the felines that.

“It’s a ballad thing,” Esme said with more confidence than she ought. “Fancy word for a pretty girl.”

“Olivia needs the still-room to herself today,” Anjali explained. “And I’d like to check on Neesuth later.”

“And if that dumb brownrider doesn’t grovel proper enough at dinner she’s gonna bunk with me and L’colm,” N’bast said, suddenly fierce, chin jerking up. “He _forgot_ her! If I hadn’t tried to introduce L’colm at breakfast she’d have been stuck up in that dumb, boring, stupid, terrible weyr _all day!”_

“He did it _again?”_ Esme shouted, yanking an undershirt up too suddenly, splashing herself. “That utter _dick!”_

Junpei twisted a tunic angrily, in complete agreement with Esme. There was an entire secondary set of dragonrider duty ballads, after the ones about Thread and the dragons themselves, about the care and respect riders owed the nonriders they served. Forgetting a weyrmate once, when you bunked somewhere unconnected to the back tunnels, was bad enough. Forgetting a _second_ weyrmate? S’ten didn’t deserve his wingsecond knots.

“He’s very busy,” Anjali said quietly, but she bit her lip.

“Brownriders get to be busy,” N’bast said scornfully. _“We’re_ just featherheads. If I tell him off for you he’s just gonna say this is _why_ greenriders only sleep with other riders. ‘Cause _obviously_ we’d forget you _all the time._ We’d forget our own _tails_ if they weren’t attached to us.”

“You don’t have a tail,” Omoriel reminded him.

“Didn’t the Headwoman give you a dorm down here?” Chojohrnen asked. “Or a foster mother, to make sure you’re not shirking chores, who’d notice you missing? You’re my age!”

Anjali was, in fact, half a Turn younger than Chojohrnen. Esme had taken to her instantly because she calmly and sweetly answered all the nosy questions Esme asked that Chojohrnen never had. She was the youngest daughter of a middling holder in Southern Telgar, on the Telgas river, had been courted at Gathers for a whole Turn by S’ten, but still only came to Benden because none of her three marriage suitors were acceptable and her father wouldn’t let her apprentice as a healer.

S’ten, on the other hand, was thirty, had Impressed nearly fifteen Turns ago, and worked his way up to wingsecond for propriety-minded _R’gul,_ which meant he had no excuses at all for treating a weyrmate poorly. If N’bast and L’colm didn’t talk to R’gul or their own wingleader K’ban about it, Junpei would.

“Oh, no, neither,” Anjali said. “Was...was I supposed to ask?”

“Nah,” Esme said loudly, shrugging, as Chojohrnen just blinked. “They only bother giving outweyr women a dorm if you stick around once the rider’s bored with you.” Anjali’s eyes went very wide, so Esme added hastily. “They don’t always! Junpei’s grandparents were together _forever,_ and Sanra’s been with her weyrmate longer than we’ve been alive.”

“Wait a minute,” Chojohrnen said. “Are you saying, if I hadn’t shown up on my own, if some dragonrider just brought me here for a fuck, no one would’ve bothered with that fostering bullshit?” Anjali covered her mouth at Chojohrnen’s harsh language, a flush spilling across her face.

“Uh…” Esme twisted her mouth up to the side, furrowing her brows in thought. “I...don’t actually know…” She turned to Junpei. “Has that happened? Was it in those old records?”

“Faranth’s Last _Egg!”_ Chojohrnen snapped, while Junpei was still trying to remember what he’d read. Chojohrnen smacked his hand down on the edge of the washtub. “Those _fuckheads!”_ He pointed at Anjali, who was now almost as red as her dark hair. “You’ve never been farther than a _Gather_ before now! I’ve been on my own since— those condescending, unthinking, hidebound old— _shards!”_

Chojohrnen stormed off across the Bowl, kicking at tufts of grass and cussing to himself.

“Don’t worry, he’s not mad at _you,”_ Esme told Anjali. Junpei watched Chojohrnen stomping away. It looked like he was heading towards the herdbeast pens, probably going to hide in an empty stall, or rant at Rishall. She had a lot of feelings about the Weyr being hidebound too.

“I didn’t think he was, thank you,” Anjali said, still flushed and wide-eyed, but doing an admirable job of sounding calm.

“You don’t need all that stuff anyway,” N’bast said. “You’ve got us now!”

~

Chojohrnen had meant it when he said D’nis was lucky to have met him at Turn’s End.

The dragonriders were at their most obnoxious in the sevenday after the Spring Games: whining over minor injuries, endlessly analyzing how the competitions had gone, bragging about their wins. D’nis was content to listen to his friends bragging, but Chojohrnen kept rolling his eyes at everyone rehashing the games. They talked to him like an adult, which was gratifying after all his months with the Lower Cavern women assume he was some clueless kid, but that didn’t help when their conversation topics were so repetitive.

Meanwhile, outside of meals, the wingleaders and their seconds spent almost as much time with their wings after the Games as before, critiquing and praising. They’d start holding councils to re-assign riders to different wings, or encourage retirement, or vote on which weyrlings could be brought into specific wings, once all the critiques were over. Not that there _were_ any unassigned weyrlings left, now, which seemed to make all the older weyrfolk uneasy…

At least, the other teens told Chojohrnen, the wingleaders _normally_ did all that. This Turn the wingseconds were doing that job in their stead, as the wingleaders held private councils every day. When every bronze wasn’t holed up in the official council chamber, then they met in twos and threes in their own weyrs. Having _every_ bronze in council was strange too, the weybrats said. T’bor and F’lar had been included since each made wingleader three Turns ago, but D’nol and S’lan were just trainees.

“The blues and greens are gonna go berry-picking early this Turn,” Earl predicted one day, as everyone soaked their feet in the lake. “The browns can’t keep them in line.”

“Berry-picking? Early?” Chojohrnen asked, glancing automatically towards the sky. “Has this spring been warmer than normal? I’m still not used to Benden’s weather.”

Come to think of it, when was spring going to change into summer around here? Be nice to know when his birth-season ended and he could tuck another Turn under his belt, go from being seventeen to eighteen. He didn’t want to ask though; Earl’s comment about holders not keeping “proper records” and knowing their birthdays still stung. He was a spring child, out of season, a disruptive nuisance, not a winter child born conveniently after the harvest ended and before planting began.

Who cared what month, let alone the day? Well, the weyrbrats and their parents, apparently. Esme’s mother joked about her vying for attention from before her first breath, entering the world the same day as a tithing train arrived. Some of the others knew the exact hour of their birth, even. Thread didn’t care what season it was, but some of the songs treated Falls as predictable. Whether it was coming back or not, the insistence on strict log-keeping permeated the Weyr. 

The Traders had changed seasons at the equinoxes and solstices, caring about the weather for road conditions, not crops. Maybe Chojohrnen could just keep using those markers too. He’d never asked what the miners and sailors he knew went by. Surely tides were more predictable than Threadfall.

“No,” Junpei mumbled sleepily. “Not any warmer.” Chojohrnen glanced down at him; like the rest of them, Junpei had rolled his trousers up over his knees and settled down where the sandy ground cut off abruptly at the water’s edge so he could dangle his feet over. Unlike the rest of them, he’d laid all the way down, and even stripped his tunic off to bundle under his head as a pillow. Arms tucked up and eyes closed, he looked more relaxed than he had since that winter evening in the drop-cave, sharing songs and puns.

Chojohrnen’s glance turned into a long admiring gaze, enjoying the sight. When he looked up again, Esme caught his eye and gave him a wry smile. Chojohrnen flushed guiltily.

“The greens and blues like to get drunk and make out with trees,” Esme said. She leered jokingly at Chojohrnen, and waggled her eyebrows.

“You mean make out _under_ trees,” Gullers corrected her.

“I said what I said.”

“Riders get bugfuck crazy cooped up here as the rest of us,” Earl said.

“They can go _anywhere,”_ Chojohrnen said dryly. “They’re hardly cooped up.” He was looking forward to being able to do that. Rumor had it there were fairs of firelizards on Ista. The rumor was a millennia old and never confirmed, sure, but the thought of going to the island to look _whenever_ he felt like was even more appealing than the thought of actually finding them. 

“Sure,” Esme said. “As soon as they clear it with their wingleader, in case there’s a Games practice or patrol they forgot about, or a schedule change, or some region’s been added to the banned list when they weren’t looking. And then they have to check in with the watch pair leaving, and coming back, and if someone shows up where they _said_ they were going and can’t _find_ them they’re in loads of trouble, so if they visit Benden but decide to hit up Nerat too, they have to come back _here_ first.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Yeah,” Esme agreed. “But schedules are always wonky after the Games, ‘cause there’s all the wingrider swaps happening, so all the blues and greens say _fuck it_ every spring and vanish for a day or two. Sometimes they come back with berries. The wingleaders are always pissed, and there’s yelling, and then everything’s back to normal.”

“The brownriders don’t say _fuck it_ too?” Chojohrnen asked, rolling over onto his stomach, lifting his feet up out of the water.

“Psh,” Earl said. _“Them?_ Like they’d risk the bronzes chewing them out. What if they got _demoted?”_ He snorted.

“Yeah,” Esme said. “P’trikor would take that risk, but everyone knows he’d never have made wingsecond in the first place if they weren’t hard up for brownriders.”

~

“Look at this,” F’lar said, ripping up a weed from Nerat’s fire heights. “It’s a disgrace. A symptom of the same blight in Telgar.”

Junpei ripped up a weed too, and didn’t comment on Telgar. F’lar had offered him a lift to the Nerat Gather as thanks for some speedy repair work during the Spring Games. It seemed polite to accept. The wingleader had spent the glide down from _between_ to the fire heights curtly describing (whining about) a recent patrol, in which his wing had discovered holdless folk occupying part of Telgar Weyr.

“No respect for the old ways,” F’nor agreed. Canth had dropped him off on the same fire height.

Maybe Telgar wouldn’t have been so tempting a shelter if Fax had not _created_ so many holdless folk. Junpei wasn’t callous enough to bring up Fax around F’lon’s sons, though, and simply nodded before taking off down the stairs, to the Gather proper. What became of those people after the wing ousted them? He thought of Chojohrnen’s curt description of his old life, and shuddered.

Weyr tradition didn’t care what made anyone holdless. Said it was the Lord Holders' job to find shelter for all outweyr folk. Tradition said Weyrs were for dragons, and that was that.

 _Why didn’t the dragons stay?_ Junpei often wondered. Weyrleader J’ash spread dragons across every Weyr, two and a half centuries ago, preparing for Thread. They’d had so few dragons, then, but easily four, five times what Benden had now. Why had J’ash’s successor called everyone back to Benden, when the Pass never came? If they’d even just kept _one other Weyr_ full, Pern would have a second queen right now.

 _And if the other five a Weyrs had never vanished, I wouldn’t be thinking about it at all,_ Junpei reminded himself. But there were no records to help him there. Just the eerie Question Song.

The bright sights and loud sounds of the Gather quickly pushed the frustrated melancholy to the back of his mind. With fewer approved Gathers ever Turn, you took in what you could. B’sur’s original home of Greystones rarely held them, everyone travelling north to Valley Hold or south to Nerat itself instead. If he kept his eyes out, he might run into one of his distant cousins today.

Junpei strolled languidly, enjoying the bustle. Maybe he’d watch some of the footraces Omoriel was so fond of. Or find a weaver’s booth, in case they had gossip from Boll.

“Junpei!” Earl popped out of the crowd and grabbed his elbow. “You gotta enter the wrestling contest. C’mon, entries are almost closed—”

“I’m not helping you win bets,” Junpei said, not bothering to pull his elbow away.

“Even if I cut you in?” Earl asked. He sighed. “It’s not for that anyway.” Junpei finally turned towards Earl, giving him a flat look of disbelief. “Well, that’s a bonus,” Earl admitted, grinning. “But this is a Code Meathead.”

Junpei immediately started towards the grounds roped off for wrestling matches. “Anything else to know?”

Earl chuffed. “Didn’t get much detail. Should work out if you enter. And probably if you’re actually _trying,_ but that’s not the Sight, that’s just common sense. Don’t see how entering and failing would help.” Earl slunk back into the crowd when they reached the people running the wrestling matches.

The woman tracking contestants frowned slightly at Junpei’s light-grey Benden shoulder-knots. They’d been white last Turn, but unless badly stained, the Headwoman didn’t see a point in re-bleaching them. “Thought you lot weren’t allowed to spar?” the woman asked.

“Riders aren’t,” Junpei explained, giving a slow nod. “I’m only a candidate.” The knots were supposed to match the white wool robes worn during Hatchings. But when the only way to attend one was to live at Benden or be invited and transported by a dragonrider, few outweyr folk recognized the significance of the color.

“Ah.” She lifted her left arm, from which several knotted strands of cording dangled. “You competed before?”

“Yes.”

“Age?”

“Eighteen.” He’d turn nineteen later in the summer.

“Here all Gather week, or just today?”

“Today.”

“Right then.” The woman unlooped the appropriate cord, added another knot to it, and looped it back over her arm. “Name?”

“Junpei.”

“Peilar and Aljunen’s son?” the woman asked dryly.

“No.” Cutting up and recombining parents’ names was far more common in the Weyr than in the Holds and Crafthalls, but it wasn’t exactly _uncommon_ there either. All but the eldest of the Ruathan heirs, Chojohrnen mentioned casually once, had recombination names of ‘Kale’ and ‘Adessa’. The eldest was the exception, named in honor of his grandfather Ashmichel. “Have there been any changes to the rules since last summer?”

“...Garoljun and Xsapei’s?”

“No.” Junpei didn’t appreciate holdfolk playing guessing games with his name. He _could_ explain that it wasn’t a recombination, that his mother had given him her great-great-uncle’s name, her great-grandfather’s already given to his older mat-brother. Just like her name was B’sur’s great-grandmother’s. But it wasn’t anyone’s business.

“Who in the hell’s Xsapei?”

Junpei turned around; Chojohrnen and D’nis had come over from watching an archery contest.

“A brownrider who’s been dead for twenty Turns,” D’nis explained. “You’ve probably heard the old Aunties and Uncles mention him. X’sap, rode Loloth. Had about five daughters, I think. No sons.”

 _“D’nis!”_ the woman exclaimed, lighting up. Junpei took one step to the side so everyone could see each other. A glance towards the walkway showed Earl had vanished. He hadn’t spotted what the trouble might be, yet. “Please tell me you’re entering again.”

“Sorry, Carol,” D’nis said, idly tapping his blue shoulder-knots. “You know I can’t.” He’d Impressed _decades_ ago. Did they have this exchange every Turn?

Carol sighed. Then she took a longer look at Junpei, tilting her head to one side. “Leilei and Chunen?” Junpei swallowed a sigh of his own. She’d run out of proper matches for the syllables and was _still_ guessing.

“Is this new?” Chojohrnen asked, one hand in his pocket, the other holding D’nis’s.

“Hm?” Carol turned towards him.

“Tracking contestants’ parentage,” Chojohrnen clarified. “It’s never come up before, at the Gathers I’ve competed in. Or bet at. Is it a Nerat thing?”

“Nah, just curious.” Carol waved her hand dismissively, setting the cords swaying. “Competed, hm? You entering?”

“I’ll enter if you get _one_ of Junpei’s parents right,” Chojohrnen said, grinning. “In...three more tries.”

The tries had to wait; a few more people were coming over to enter. Carol pointed Junpei towards the referee for a refresher on the rules and to pay his entrance fee, and when he got back she’d just given Chojohrnen her last set of guesses.

“Do you mind if I tell her?” Chojohrnen asked, still grinning. D’nis grinned too, clucking his tongue at Carol in a teasing, friendly way. Carol was laughing, self-depreciating, and her eyes stayed firmly on D’nis’s face, never one glancing down towards his hand clasped in Chojohrnen’s.

Did he mind? He minded the guessing game. He minded holdfolk thinking they knew _all about_ life in the Weyr. He minded people getting rewarded for nosing in his business, just as much as Chojohrnen minded weyrfolk doing the same.

But Chojohrnen had set up an _un-_ reward. Carol had failed to guess right, and lost a potential contestant. Chojohrnen’s nasty facial scar could’ve drawn more of a crowd in; a dangerous-looking newcomer was sure to get the bets rolling.

“I’ll mind if no one watches my things,” Junpei said. Chojohrnen grinned broader, pulling his hand from his pocket and making a _gimme_ gesture. The referee had mentioned things would start soon. Junpei stowed his moneypouch and belt-knife in one boot, his shirt in another, and handed the lot over to Chojohrnen.

“Junpei’s mother is journeywoman weaver Reiko,” Chojohrnen told Carol cheerfully. “Deceased bluerider B’sur’s daughter. See this belt?” He jerked his chin down, over the boots he held, to the blue, green, and yellow woven sash over his jerkin. “Her work.” Junpei had told him to keep it, after Turn’s End. It looked nice, with his Gather clothes. Cheerful. “His dad now, not nearly as talented. Doesn’t make anything, just gives boring orders.” D’nis hastily covered up a snorted laugh with a brief coughing fit. “Bronzerider R’gul.”

 _“Oh!”_ Carol slapped a hand across her forehead. “The eyebrows! Those shoulders! I should have known.” Junpei repressed an urge to grab his shirt back from Chojohrnen.

“Yeah Junpei, your _shoulders,”_ Chojohrnen said, grinning broader. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to have his shirt off. “Obviously your dad’s R’gul. It’s not like half the riders are ripped from hauling themselves up leather straps onto their dragons’ backs damn near daily.”

“Your friend’s a mean one, D’nis,” Carol said. She waved goodbye and went to finalize the contest schedule with the referee and another official.

 _“Friend,”_ Chojohrnen muttered. D’nis leaned over and kissed the side of his head.

“Hoping to impress the girls, Junpei?” D’nis asked.

“Mm.” Earl didn’t like too many people knowing when he interfered.

Junpei ran into one of his Greystones cousins after all; Kaede was his first opponent. Kaede asked after Reiko and Kenta once Junpei pinned him, disappointed to hear that the weyrfolk weren’t allowed out on the Western Claw anymore.

“I’ll ask my shipmates to keep an ear out,” Kaede promised, after the referee finished the countdown, and Junpei helped him up.

“Thanks.”

The second opponent was someone he’d never met before, from a Nerat beasthold tucked into the hills. The third he’d wrestled two Turns ago.

Junpei never paid much attention to the audience when wrestling. He had as a kid, just grappling with the other weyrbrats, when it was good odds another kid’d jump you and there’d be a dozen squirming fighters in a pile before long. But the Gather contests were well-ordered. His brain kept up with the world better now, too; as a kid, he was just as likely to notice a dragon’s shadow passing overhead as a peer about to tackle him. He _could_ focus on a single opponent now.

Kaede and all the others took advantage of the moments between rounds to flirt with the audience, though, so Junpei took the time to look around. Earl was making his way through the crowd, chatting with the usual gamblers.

A few brownriders and their weyrmates from the Lower Caverns were spectating, arms wrapped comfortably around each other, including S’ten and Anjali. S’ten had apologized for forgetting her in their weyr as soon as he got back that day, so N’bast had never told any wingleaders. Anjali seemed happy. Junpei, Esme, and Headwoman Manora (after a quiet word from Junpei) were still keeping an eye on them in case that changed.

D’nis and Chojohrnen had their heads tilted together every time Junpei glanced their way, quiet flicks of their free hands indicating a discussion of contestants’ techniques, successes, and failures.

It was when the referee raised Junpei’s fist into the air, declaring him the final victor for his age and weight class, that he finally spotted Esme. She stood next to Felena and a handful of other girls their age, arms crossed. The others were leaning over the rope barrier to chat with contestants they knew. Esme was leaning away from the rope, pressing against the rest of the crowd trying to push forward, glaring at a young man, a few weight classes up from Junpei, leering at her.

Damn it.

Chojohrnen and D’nis were on the far side from her. Earl was making his way to the girls, but most men who ignored Esme’s glare didn’t care about a protective _younger_ brother.

“Hey, we’ve got a problem,” Junpei said, when the referee dropped his hand. He jerked his chin towards the spectators.

“Oh, dungpiles,” the referee hissed under his breath. He strode over to the side; flirting with the crowd brought in marks, but not harassing them. Junpei followed. “Hey, Osklary! A word.”

Osklary held up one finger, asking the referee to give him a moment. “You sure liked Fiory, and we’re almost _identical._ Our _shipmates_ get us mixed up.”

“You’re nothing alike,” Esme spat.

“We’re all here to have a good time, sweetheart,” Osklary said. The referee crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently.

“Yeah, I did, but I came _with_ someone to have a good time,” Esme said. True. A lot of someones. She’d come with all the girls her own age from the Lower Caverns. Who were dropping their conversations to listen in. Felena frowned at Osklary.

“What? You liar, I haven’t seen you talk to a single man but me—”

Esme pointed past the referee to Junpei. “I came here with _him._ Now leave me alone.”

Osklary turned around slowly. Straightened all the way up. He had nearly a head of height on Junpei, and a lot of mass. Winced minutely when he cracked his knuckles. Hm.

 _“You’re_ her boyfriend?”

“We don’t call it that in the Weyr,” Junpei said. Felena covered her mouth to hide her smile. The other girls giggled. Osklary’s face wrinkled in disgust. He spat on the grass and cracked his knuckles again. Another wince...yep, right wrist was in pain. Earlier match, probably.

“What’s this small fry got that I don’t?” Osklary demanded of Esme. The crowd hadn’t dispersed, despite the official matches being over, enjoying the show. A round of laughter went up at this comment; Junpei wasn’t exactly small fry, much as Osklary might be used to being a big fish.

“Ooooh,” Esme purred. “Lots of things.”

“Like ears,” Junpei said. “She told you to leave her alone.” He’d meant to sound smug, or teasing, but came out flat. The bigger man took a menacing step towards him, and the referee slapped a hand on his chest.

“Come on Osklary,” the referee said. “Today’s rounds are over. Get your token. Go enjoy the Gather, come back tomorrow.”

“They’re not over,” Osklary said loudly. “Got one more. Me and this brat.”

Better than fighting in the walkways. “All right.” Junpei held up one finger, and walked off towards Chojohrnen and D’nis, while the audience whistled. “Can you two get over there during the match? I saw Earl lurking, but if this ass puts me in the dirt I don’t want Esme to murder him. Earl’d hand her the knife.”

“We’ll protect her,” D’nis promised, reaching across the rope to pat his shoulder.

“Make him bet his share of the pot,” Chojohrnen said. Junpei almost grinned.

Osklary spat again when Junpei stepped into the center ring. “Come here with the prettiest girl and _still_ ditch her for your boyfriends? I knew dragonriders were freaks, but that’s plain greedy.”

“Ref,” Junpei said, deliberately ignoring Osklary. “Winner gets both our pots?”

“Reasonable,” the referee said.

“You lose this and you’re not wrestling tomorrow,” Carol said quietly, hands on hips, standing next to the referee, the third official nodding along. “We’re here for a contest, sailor, not personal grudges.”

“It’s not a grudge,” Osklary said.

“And mind your tongue about dragonriders,” Carol added. “This lad’s only a candidate, but you owe _them_ respect.”

“Er...sorry, ma’am.”

The officials stepped away, the referee beginning the count. Junpei rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet, eyeing Osklary, who eyed him back. What would’ve happened if Junpei hadn’t entered the contest? Esme and her friends coming to watch, still. Had Osklary been bothering her earlier? Just recognized her after entering? Didn’t matter.

“Three...”

He harassed her once the rounds were over, when the crowd was too thick for her to leave. He challenged Junpei to a match over her. Would he have fought Earl, or just shoved him aside?

“Two...”

Were there enough people to help Esme if he got handsy, or would they have laughed at her discomfort? A hold or crafthall girl shrieking would shock at least _one_ bystander into helping, but he’d heard the ribald jokes about weyrgirls being as randy and indiscriminate and _loud_ as green dragons…

“One! Go!”

Osklary lunged forward. Junpei ducked, surged up shoulder-first, grabbed Osklary’s injured wrist, and threw him over his shoulder to the ground.

Junpei kept ahold of Osklary’s wrist during the throw.

The snap wasn’t audible.

The scream _was._

~

Chojohrnen let go of D’nis to move through the crowd faster. All the laughter stopped when the sailor screamed. Were any of Osklary’s shipmates in the crowd? This could get very bad, very fast. _Dammit Junpei, don’t tell me to get to Esme during the match and END the damn thing in five seconds!_

“Excuse me,” Anjali’s clear voice rang out as Oskalry drew in a gasping breath. “I know how to set that. If you’ll allow me?”

“Yeah, thanks,” the referee said loudly. “Don’t know _where_ our healer’s got to. Man would lose his own head if it weren’t attached.”

Okay. Maybe things weren’t about to get bad after all. The crowd broke up, some of them calling out jeers at both Osklary and Junpei, but nobody was trying to get into the ring, or hassling the weyrgirls. Chojohrnen reached them and found a man who looked an awful lot like Osklary on his knees, apologizing to Esme for his brother’s behavior.

“Fiory…” Esme planted one fist on her hip, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know this isn’t your fault, right?”

“If I hadn’t told him about...um.”

“He chose to be an ass all on his own.”

“Maybe,” Chojohrnen said sharply, as Fiory stood up. Junpei was still in the ring, standing guard over Anjali as she set and wrapped Osklary’s wrist. The referee was taking advantage of their presence to rip Osklary a new one for hassling a spectator. “Or maybe you bragged about whatever the hell it was you did with Esme, and your shipmates thought it was _so funny,_ that you had all the luck and he didn’t, and needled him until he thought he had something to prove.”

“How...” The blood drained out of Fiory’s face, and he whispered, “How did you know that?”

“You don’t know the stories?” Chojohrnen hissed back. “About the weyrfolk? You’re lucky plucking out those thoughts is _all_ I did. And _he’s_ lucky it wasn’t _me_ in that ring.”

There. Let the sailors run off convinced they’d escaped a terrible fate, instead of fuming over what Junpei’d done. Fiory scrambled away to collect his brother. Junpei escorted Anjali over to the other weyrfolk just as D’nis and S’ten reached them from opposite sides of the crowd. D’nis held Earl firmly by the upper arm, ignoring his sullen teenage eye-rolling.

“You didn’t really read his mind, did you?” Felena asked Chojohrnen, as Esme hugged Junpei. If Chojohrnen hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have even seen Junpei’s hands shaking before vanishing under Esme’s hair as he hugged her back. “Moreta could talk to all _dragons_ like that, but there aren’t any ballads about humans talking to other humans that way…”

“Aw, shells, Felena,” Chojohrnen said, aiming for a sheepish tone to make everything less dire. “I just made a lucky guess and messed with him a little. Mind-reading’s impossible.” Felena was sweet. She didn’t need to worry about his ‘lucky guess’ coming from Turns of experience with similar men.

“Well I thought not feeling a mating flight was impossible too,” Felena said defensively. “But Anjali doesn’t even notice them happening! Maybe there’s _lots_ of impossible things that are possible.”

“That must be restful,” Chojohrnen said. He turned to ask Anjali if it was true, but S’ten was already walking her back to the dragons on the heights. D’nis thought S’ten had the right idea, and chivied all the younger weyrfolk towards the dragons too.

“I didn’t get those pipes I wanted yet,” Earl whined. “Come on, are you gonna let one jerk ruin the whole Gather? The _last_ spring Gather?”

“It’s getting late,” D’nis said. It was barely mid-afternoon. Chojohrnen wrapped an arm over Felena’s shoulders and pressed against D’nis’s opposite side from Earl.

S’ten, Chojohrnen had forgotten, was R’gul’s wingsecond, and charged with monitoring holder sentiments about dragonriders. He’d dutifully reported both Osklary’s insult to Junpei, and Carol’s insistence on respect, and of _course_ given the full context as he saw it for everything.

Which meant when they got back to Benden Weyr R’gul pulled Junpei aside to lecture him. Chojohrnen eavesdropped tensely, determined not to leave Junpei alone with his father. Weyrfolk, according to R’gul, had a duty to protect _all_ people of Pern, including the terrible ones. Junpei should have turned down the grudge match and let the referees handle it. Or accepted the match and somehow not broken the sailor’s wrist.

“I am, however,” R’gul said, in the same stern tone he’d delivered the lecture in. “Proud of you. You saw someone in trouble and took action.” He clasped Junpei’s shoulder tight. “You could have chosen a better course of action, but...well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Junpei said, so quietly Chojohrnen could barely hear, and didn’t speak to anyone at all for the rest of the day.


	7. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2494, Late Spring, Summer.

A month after the Nerat Gather, an ear-splitting, blood-curdling, _venomous_ shriek woke Junpei up in the dormitory. He snapped his eyes open, heart pounding, and lay still. Lomerik yelped, having sat bolt upright and hit his head on the upper bunk. Chojohrnen scrambled out of his bunk, landing on his feet, back immediately pressed to the wall.

A second shriek tore the air. Omoriel whimpered and pulled his pillow over himself, curling up in a ball of tangled quilts. Junpei wanted to do the same; he hadn’t heard that sound since he was twelve. He’d hoped—

 _“Blast_ Nemorth’s loud,” Earl said, and then laughed. “I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do this again since F’lon died. Think they’ll get Jora sliced down too, this time? I still wouldn’t want—”

 _“Shut up!”_ Junpei snapped, only to be drowned out by a third shriek. No one heard him. He flung himself out of bed and held a shaking hand out to Chojohrnen. “It’s just Nemorth, don’t worry. Let’s get breakfast. This might last awhile.”

Chojohrnen took Junpei’s hand without looking, eyes lingering on Earl, lip curled up in disgust. Junpei doubted Chojohrnen understood what was happening, but he clearly recognized maliciousness when he heard it. He must recognize distress, too, kindly letting Junpei keep holding his hand for comfort all the way to the dining cavern, and then pressed his shoulder against him as they grabbed meatrolls and klah.

“Good, you’re up!” Jelally said, planting her hands on her hips when she saw them. “We’re going to the Lemos foothills for slamberries today. Dress for boggy fields.”

“Didn’t Luceel’s group get that last sevenday?” Junpei asked, frowning. It was hard to think, even with the shrieks quieter and further apart now. His head hurt.

“The council wants as many dragons out of the Weyr as possible,” Jelally said. “The browns are leading their wings in more training exercises off in Bitra, and the retired ones need something to do too.”

“But what’s that _sound?”_ Chojohrnen asked, wincing as a sustained hiss echoed in from the Bowl.

“It’s the council putting their foot down is what it is,” Jelally said firmly. Under the table, Junpei’s hand sought Chojohrnen’s again. He kept his head bent over his mug of klah, knowing he didn’t have the control to keep his face expressionless, not now. “You’ve seen the Weyrwoman taking the queen to eat, I trust?”

Chojohrnen nodded warily.

“It’s a damn shame, what happened to that dragon. Doesn’t fly except to mate, barely even bothers to glide. The dragon reflects the rider, and the pair of them are the surest evidence of that I’ve ever seen. Lazy, over-eating, _petulant_ children, the both of them.” Jelally’s voice dripped with venom. “But what can _we_ do about it? The Weyrwoman has authority over Manora, until the council or Weyrleader intervenes. _We_ can’t stop her killing herself on wherry and mashed tubers. Or stop her killing that queen with overindulgence. Fattest beast in the herd is always gone, every time Nemorth oozes over to the killing grounds.”

“You’ve lost me,” Chojohrnen said.

Junpei tried to sip his klah, and had to put the mug down, hand shaking; they’d said _that_ about his mother, too. Teasing and cleverness was childish, when someone else was mad at you. Refusing to take on extra work when you were already busy was lazy. Openly disagreeing with dragonriders and the Headwoman was petulance.

“Bronzes and golds can command other dragons,” Jelally was explaining. “And golds can normally command bronzes, but the Weyrwoman’s weak-willed enough that Nemorth’s containable, if the bronzes work together. They’re stopping her from overeating. Getting all that fat off her so she’ll rise for a _proper_ mating flight. F’lon came up with it when he was still with us, and got the biggest clutch Nemorth’s ever laid! Twenty-four eggs, and four of them bronzes.”

“Fascinating,” Chojohrnen said, squeezing Junpei’s hand tight under the table. Jelally laughed at his dry tone, and left to break up a fight between some of the little kids over sweetrolls. The queen’s furious shrieks and hisses finally stopped. “I do need that hand to pick slamberries,” Chojohrnen whispered.

Junpei let go.

Half an hour later, gathering outside the junior queens’ empty weyrs for a wing of elderly riders to take them to Lemos, the unImpressed teens watched Nemorth slink back to the Weyrwoman’s quarters, hissing angrily, Jora walking slowly by her side. A dozen green and blue dragons peered curiously down from the upper edge of the caldera, but aside from them and the bronzes still guarding the feeding grounds, the Bowl was strangely empty.

“I think I see what Jelally meant by rider and dragon reflecting each other,” Chojohrnen murmured quietly enough for only Junpei to hear. “Can’t even see her face from here, but both of them look ready to commit a murder. Or ten.”

“Think she’ll beat ‘em tomorrow?” Esme asked, cocking her head to the side.

“She’d’ve beat ‘em last time if Jora weren’t such a pushover,” Earl said.

“Are you on such familiar terms with the Weyrwoman you can call her by name?” Junpei asked, putting all the coldness he could into his voice

Earl jumped. “Jays, Juney, don’t _do_ that! Thought R’gul was here.”

“Don’t call me Juney.”

“Even _I_ don’t call him Juney,” Esme said. She swung her empty berry-picking basket against Earl’s gut. He crumbled over with an exaggerated groan. She boffed his shoulder. “Bet you a sevenday of dishwashing they’re gonna put the Weyrwoman on bread and water rations again.”

“The good bread, or the burnt stuff?” Chojohrnen asked her.

“Think it was leftover crusts, last time,” Esme said, shrugging, and their lift to Lemos arrived before Chojohrnen could ask anything else.

The picked-out vines by the usual landing hill made a good excuse for leaving everyone else his age or older behind on the expedition. Junpei splashed through boggy ground for half an hour, muck clinging to his boots, the half-dozen younger kids he was in charge of happily pointing out avians and flowers and the wonderful way the bog squelched under their boots to each other, before bothering to gather any slamberries.

Toley and Tollara had to be stopped from daring each other into licking things. Little Lornaley got tired easily and just sat down wherever she was instead of asking to be picked up if you didn’t watch her. Morag was probably too young to be on this expedition, but he was tall for his age, and the adults forgot he was only five. Tegaran was a determined berry-picker, but would bring anything else that caught his eye to the twins to lick, smash, or throw. Yatin, thankfully, was nine Turns old and trying too hard to be responsible. Junpei kept Lornaley and Morag near himself and asked Yatin to patrol their perimeter and holler if the other three wandered off too far.

Between watching the kids and actually picking berries, Junpei all but forgot about what drove them out into the Lemos foothills for the morning. It was a nasty shock to get back to the landing hill for lunch and hear the adults swapping stories from Weyrleader F’lon’s experiments Turns ago and _laughing._ Junpei handed responsibility for the little kids over to Luceel, grabbed his share of lunch, and legged it back into the bog with a fresh basket to work alone.

“Mother _fucker_ you’re fast!”

Junpei froze. Chojohrnen caught up to him at the crest a low hill, and grabbed onto a scrubby tree to catch his breath. 

“Whew! Thanks. Figured I’d stick with you before anyone could try foisting babies off on me again. One of the poor little buggers fell into a pond I swear hadn’t been there five minutes before when I turned my back, had to fish ‘em out all by myself and now Luceel’s mad at me for teaching ‘em swears.”

“...have you honestly never watched little kids before?” Junpei asked.

“Well, I _was_ the youngest,” Chojohrnen said with a shrug. He stretched, making his spine pop, and twirled his empty basket. “So. Tell me. Have any one of those snickering creeps ever _been_ on bread and water rations?”

“...some of the really old ones, maybe,” Junpei said, racking his brain. “I think the Headwoman before Manora used it for punishment. Manora thinks assigning your most hated chore is better, since you need food to have the strength to _do_ the chores.”

“Thought so.”

They walked in silence for a while longer, before settling on another low hill to eat. When the last crumb was gone, they flopped down on the moss to watch the clouds, instead of getting back to work.

“...you know,” Junpei said impulsively. “This is your last chance to back out.”

“...huh?”

“Of being a dragonrider,” Junpei said. “The bronzes are going to keep harassing Nemorth, and taking turns chasing greens for practice, and she _will_ rise eventually.” Or die. But no one talked about that. “And when she rises, there’ll be a clutch, and a Hatching, and we’re both young enough to Stand, and male, so we will, and if we Impress, that’s it. No holds or crafts for us.”

“Just a lifelong companion that loves you unconditionally,” Chojohrnen said dryly.

“Whose love is so big you get swept up in it and have sex with whoever rides the dragon _they_ like, even if you wouldn’t give them the time of day before.”

Chojohrnen rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Does that scare you?”

“Yes,” Junpei admitted. He’d never even told Gullers this. “Everyone talks about it being beautiful. Or thrilling. Like it’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to them. But I’ve seen riders crying after a flight, or flinching when someone touches them. I don’t ever want to hurt another person like that.”

“...I don’t think you will,” Chojohrnen said. He sat up, wrapping his arms loosely around his legs. Junpei stayed on the moss, cloud-eggs hatching into cloud-dragons above him. “D’nis has been explaining it, a little, and it sounds like most people just do what they’re used to, during a flight. And blues and browns and bronzes can get talked out of chasing greens by their riders if they realize a sevenday or so before the flight that the dragons are interested in each other. So if you’re _usually_ a gentle lover, you still will be, and you can ask your dragon not to chase greens whose riders don’t like you back.”

“...I never knew that.” Junpei watched a cloud-dragon fall apart into hazy wisps.

“Well, you’re a bronzerider’s son, you don’t have a _choice_ about Standing, why would they bother telling you anything?” Chojohrnen pointed out.

“I’ve got a choice,” Junpei said, discomfited. “I’ve got a pat-brother apprenticed to the Harpers, and a mat-brother apprenticed to the Weavers, and they both left before they were twenty.”

“Right,” Chojohrnen said, voice somehow even _dryer_ than before. “And the fact that I never hear anyone but _you_ mention them, as though leaving the Weyr was worse than dying, hasn’t put any pressure on you to stick around at all.”

“All the girls think you’re going to get green for sure,” Junpei said, nettled, and angry with himself for being nettled. “I saw Rishall telling you it’s lucky green dragons only get proddy four times a Turn, instead of once a month. Don’t the mating flights scare you? At all?”

“Death scares me.” Chojohrnen laid back down and closed his eyes. “I’ve just spent a few months flirting as hard as I can with a handsome older man, and instead of giving me a matching one of these—” Chojohrnen pointed towards his jagged facial scar, “—everyone’s been giggling and teasing like it was a cute girl crushing on me.”

“Better than dead isn’t a reason to stick around,” Junpei said, annoyance turning into worry. Chojohrnen determinedly didn’t bring up his crying jag from months ago, but Junpei couldn’t help worrying about it. “The craft halls are accepting; they just care about your work. And D’nis could keep seeing you at one, if you wanted.”

“My Nana’s aunt said our hold _liked_ having queers around, in her youth. Craft halls can _change._ The Weyr could too, but if I have a dragon it won’t matter.” Chojohrnen reached out without looking and patted Junpei’s face awkwardly. “Don’t you fret about me like I’m one of your baby chicks. I can look after myself.”

~

Headwoman Manora took meal-delivery to Weyrwoman Jora out of the regular chore rotation, bringing all the bread and water rations herself. It was for the Weyrwoman’s own good, she informed the Lower Cavern workers sternly, and Nemorth’s good. Anyone going against the bronze council’s will on this matter would be banished.

“Anyone who stops the queen from rising,” Manora said. “Is endangering the entire Weyr, and Pern itself.”

There weren’t any other dragons who could lay eggs. Everyone knew greens couldn’t, that the firestone all fighting dragons chewed for Games practice rendered them sterile. Junpei remembered being confused as a little kid, when he first learned that golds were forbidden from chewing firestone. All the bronzes chewed, and bronzes chased golds. Weren’t they sterilized by it too? No one had ever noticed his confusion, but he’d eventually figured out it must have something to do with egg production, not fertility.

If Nemorth didn’t rise, there wouldn’t be any more dragons. Ever.

The long gathering expeditions lasted a month. Junpei supervised children gathering spiderclaws in tidepools along the Nerat coastline, and learning to salt fish in Keroon Bay, and bundling up herbs to dry along the Lemos/Bitra border. All places he’d visited just as much six Turns before, as a confused, scared twelve-Turns-old kid ignoring his anxiety by looking out for his peers. Fallarnon had put a spiderclaw in Gullers’ hair back then.

Benden’s eleven bronze dragons watched the queen in shifts, getting between her and the feeding pens when they could, stealing her kills when they couldn’t, constantly commanding the grounded greens and their handful of suitors to stay away. When one of the greens rose, the bronzes not actively guarding Nemorth rose as well, sharpening their skills.

Arguments fiercer than any during the Spring Games wracked the dining cavern every night. Success meant a new Weyrleader. A _real_ Weyrleader again, like F’lon, or S’loner before him, the countless others back through the centuries. Not a council that pressed the will of the half-dozen loudest members on the entire Weyr one moment, and argued itself to death the next.

“F’lar wants us back out in the world,” Esme signed rapidly to Gullers. “No more banned areas. Getting ready for Thread means scouring _every_ hold of plants.”

“It also means Summer, Autumn, and Winter Games,” Gullers retorted. “K’ban and C’vrel pay attention to the patrol logs and surveys. They’re open to dragons helping during natural disasters like that flood in Bitra.”

“C’vrel is a _coward,”_ Esme said so vehemently she knocked her mug over, but she didn’t say anything about K’ban. Lomerik asked Omoriel why everyone was arguing so much, if the dragons were the ones deciding, and Earl leaned across the table to explain that if enough people supported a bronzerider, it could influence the flight.

Three sevendays into the nightmare, when Junpei was watching the overnight klah pot that the riders on patrol in other time zones drank from, the Weyrwoman came down in the dead hours before dawn.

Her hair was greasy enough to glisten under the glows, and more tangled than Junpei had ever seen. She walked strangely, tilted forward on her toes, shoulders hunched, arms constantly forward, touching walls, chairs, tables, briefly planting one hand on the floor a few times. Her nose lead the way, neck jutted out. She kept her eyes wide, wide open, blinking slowly.

“Weyrwoman?”

Jora ignored Junpei’s quiet call. He hadn’t been very loud. The few women up to bake that day’s bread glanced uneasily at each other. They silently stepped aside when Jora approached, clutching their mugs of klah tight to their chests. Jora stopped, sniffed the air heavily, and snatched a mug from Ellenra. Everyone shrieked and scurried away. Jora messily chugged the hot drink.

Junpei stared, fascinated and horrified, as Jora tossed the empty mug aside and kept moving towards the counter. But it was clean, the bread making supplies still in their pantry, last night’s dinner long since cleared away. Junpei had seen Jora in the dining cavern, sometimes, as a child. She’d never acted like this. A terrible hunger radiated from her, twisting up Junpei’s stomach as he stared.

Mixing bowls and utensils went flying as Jora tore into the cupboards, hissing. A sudden smear of red on one drawer broke the spell over Junpei; the Weyrwoman had just cut her hand throwing a knife. Junpei ran from the overnight klah pot, down a short tunnel to a cold storage room. The Headwoman always insisted on keeping one shelf full of odds and ends from meals, for the growing children and teens to snack on. Junpei pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, and hastily swept miscellaneous cheese-knobs, bread ends, whole fruits, and strips of smoked meats onto it.

“Weyrwoman?” Junpei called out louder this time, when he got back. No response. Junpei swallowed hard.

“Jora!”

No response.

“...Nemorth?”

She froze, then rose up from the compost bucket, emptied every morning, mouth and hands full of redfruit rind.

Junpei strode over, shaking, arms extended, and spilled the bundle’s provisions out on the counter. Jora dropped the rinds, swallowed what was in her mouth, and snatched up a strip of smoked meat. Junpei brought her a mug of water, watching nervously as Jora ate, and ate, and ate.

With every mouthful, her shoulders dropped lower. Her spine straightened. Her eyes closed. When she opened them again, she smiled at Junpei.

“Thank you.” The words came out raspy. The Weyrwoman smoothly took the mug of water and downed it, much more neatly than she’d drunk the klah. “Tell me, are any wings getting back from patrol in the next hour?”

“Ah…” Junpei mentally tallied who’d already stopped by the klah pot. “There’s one in three-quarters of an hour.”

“That will be all right, then. Thank you.”

The morning bakers joined Junpei to curiously watch Jora leave. Nemorth paced outside the Lower Cavern’s main entrance, mantling her wings and hissing lowly, blocking out the moonlight.

“I thought dragons couldn’t see very well at night?” someone asked while the pair slunk towards the feeding grounds across the Bowl.

“It’s not like the queen’s flying,” Ellenra said. “No need to dodge other dragons.”

“Do we...need to tell Manora?” someone else asked quietly. Junpei’s breath caught in his chest.

“Tell her what?” Ellenra asked sharply. “That something got into the compost while the felines were away? Don’t go bothering the Headwoman with little things like that. Come on. Back to work.”


	8. Summer, Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2494, Summer, Autumn.

Nemorth rose in the middle of summer, in the seventh month of the Turn. Relief swept the Weyr as people noticed her hide beginning to glow as she slept. _Soon_ , people said to each other. _She’ll rise. We’ll have a Weyrleader again_. Excitement followed, from that knowledge and from Nemorth’s own mating lust seeping out of her, stronger than any green’s. Strong enough, in fact, to simultaneously _trigger_ and _suppress_ the greens all morning.

Grounded greenriders, those whose dragons had begun glowing from their own cycles in the past few days, gathered unconsciously in the Bowl, chewing their knuckles, running in circles, snapping at each other or laughing uproariously at the slightest thing. Riders not yet grounded, whose greens wouldn’t have shown how close they were for days or even weeks, joined them in greater numbers as the morning wore on, their dragons flocking to the edge of the caldera, joined by amorous blues and browns, the patrol wings depleted. None of them rose yet; greens were friendly, golds _possessive._ No one knew if it was some ancient firelizard power or a purely draconic one, but Nemorth’s psychic pressure kept them in the Weyr, kept the skies clear of rivals for her suitors, even as she slept.

The roiling lust couldn’t affect green dragons in the long quiet months of their cycles, but it _did_ affect their riders. Weyrmates and casual lovers alike slipped away to their weyrs, though some riders took it upon themselves to bite down the urges and take over tasks that the Lower Caverns workers abandoned.

Junpei helped Sanra distract the little kids from the adults’ nerves with songs and games in the teaching cavern. A half dozen elderly riders joined them, bringing gitars and reed pipes out like it was Turn’s End, encouraging the kids to make up new verses to old songs. Anjali took over for Sanra around noon, when the older woman left to find her own weyrmate just as Nemorth slunk from her weyr to the feeding grounds, hissing.

The tension rose to its peak when Nemorth did, all the bronzes rising to chase, but it _broke_ when she was caught. All the primed greens rose as one shrieking, trilling flock, dozens of others joining them for the sheer joy of aerobatics, blue and brown suitors racing after them. A few riders mentioned later that most of the defeated bronzes caught greens on their way back to the Weyr. Nobody would know who won until all of them returned.

A raw, hungry envy clawed its way up through Junpei as strong as the second-hand lust from Benden’s green dragons and golden queen. He wanted to fly. He wanted to slip away down a dark tunnel with someone, like his sisters already had. He wanted a friend in the air to tell him what was _happening._ He wanted to climb the sheer stone cliff face until he found Chojohrnen—

Junpei walked out of the teaching cavern. Through the kitchen, the dining cavern, looking away from the couples pressed against the walls and under tables, plugging his ears against the obscene sounds echoing down from the tunnel to the privacy chamber, shells, they must have had to throw down every spare mattress, every pillow, every blanket, to make sure no one was grinding against cold stone.

Warm summer air hit his face when he reached the Bowl. That wouldn’t help at all. Better go to the lake, cool down. _Someone_ needed to stay calm. _He_ needed to stay calm. Had the Weyr been this overwhelmed last time? There wasn’t anyone else in the Bowl at all, like it was midnight.

No.

There was one other person.

F’lar was halfway across the Bowl, slinking from the senior queen’s weyr to the barracks with his head down and shoulders rounded, for once not a trace of swagger in his steps. Junpei almost called out, a strange knot of sympathy and desire in his chest, but stopped himself. Kept walking his own path to the lake.

The barracks were the most isolated part of Benden Weyr when no weyrlings lived there. F’lar must want to be alone. It’d be rude to let him know Junpei witnessed his dejection. And Junpei didn’t dare risk an entire Weyr’s worth of dragonlust overriding the sensible part of his brain that knew F’lar was an arrogant, condescending, _dickbag._ No matter how good his butt looked in those trousers—

“Fuck,” Junpei whispered hoarsely, and ran the rest of the way to the lake. He stayed in the cold water until all of the dragons came home.

~

“No more busywork expeditions!” Earl toasted in the dining cavern. Tinall and Omoriel looked at each other and rolled their eyes; without all the extra food gathering expeditions, Headwoman Manora wouldn’t be throwing this impromptu Queen Flight Feast.

“No more bogus patrols!” a bluerider called.

“No more starving queen,” Junpei said quietly, with a shudder. Nothing else that this flight meant, having a Weyrleader again, a new clutch, the chance to Impress, held a candle to the relief of that torture ending.

Chojohrnen patted his back, then curiously patted again, squishing Junpei’s braid against his shirt. “Why’s your hair all wet? Wait…” Chojohrnen pointed over his shoulder towards the bathing chambers. “Don’t tell me you were one of the people off in—”

 _“No!”_ Junpei squeaked, flushing.

“Thank the First Egg,” Chojohrnen said, relaxing. “Thinking of you losing control like everyone else here is just _weird._ But, uh...why _is_ your hair all wet?”

“I jumped in the lake,” Junpei admitted. Chojohrnen laughed, but instead of teasing Junpei over it he just trailed off, eyes unfocused as he blinked down at the table. “Are you okay?” Junpei asked.

“Fine,” Chojohrnen said, with a quick shake of his head. He offered an almost-smile, distracted and quick. “It’s just all...real, now.”

 _It’s always been real,_ Junpei thought, but a ripple went up through the crowd before he could say that, pulling his attention away. People rose to their feet, offering congratulations, handshakes, claps on the back to the new Weyrleader. Junpei couldn’t see, too many people around the winner. Not F’lar, he already knew that, and there was no way D’nol or S’lan had won...he looked around the rest of the dining cavern, searching for the other bronzeriders. K’ban was sitting by a wall flirting with a few women, Sh’xsa was arguing with M’ridin about something, maybe C’vrel…?

“It’s Dad,” Gullers said, touching Junpei’s elbow. “Anjali went to bring Jora some food, now the restriction’s lifted, and saw Hath cuddling Nemorth.”

“...we’d better congratulate him,” Junpei said.

“Hath, or Dad?” Gullers asked wryly, but she pushed herself to her feet. “Come on, then.” Chojohrnen and everyone else at their table stayed sitting. Esme was nowhere in sight.

Wingleader C’vrel laughed when he saw Junpei and Gullers walking over, and smacked a hand hard against R’gul’s back. “Here’s your son come to thank you, man! You’ve sired a clutch for him just in time.” C’vrel winked at Gullers. “What’re the odds on your brother finally getting bronze this autumn?”

“Betting on Impressions is improper, sir,” Gullers said, getting a rare approving nod from R’gul. She turned to their father. “Weyrleader. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” R’gul said solemnly.

“Well flown,” Junpei said, and clasped R’gul’s hand. “Lead well.” He couldn’t bring himself to say _I’m sure you’ll lead well,_ like the other weyrfolk were saying. R’gul and all the other wingleaders thought F’lon had been right, that starving Nemorth and Jora was the right thing to do. But how could it have been? It was dangerous, cruel. Junpei let go, stepping back as others pressed forward, the thought heavy in his gut.

He didn’t trust _any_ of the bronzeriders to lead well.

~

The patrols changed first. Chojohrnen hadn’t known _what_ he expected, caring more about the coming clutch than Benden having a Weyrleader (it wasn’t like he’d known any leadership but the bronze council) but it hadn’t been the patrols.

“Six Turns trying out every wingleaders’ ideas on the routes and schedules means the Weyrleader knows what works best, now,” S’ten declared proudly at dinner, still smelling a bit like the wild herdbeasts roaming the Keroon plateau. Some patrols, Chojohrnen had learned, included swooping down very low or even dismounting to survey plants and wildlife, tracking how it had recovered from Thread. Which hadn’t fallen in over _four centuries._ Tucked under S’ten’s arm like she was, the smell that Weyr tradition had resulted in today must be much less ignorable for Anjali, but she just made polite questioning noises. If D’nis had tried to cuddle Chojohrnen after flying the Keroon survey patrol, Chojohrnen would have told him to go jump in the lake.

“We’re going back to the less populated areas again,” S’ten went on. “Get a feel for the terrain, and stay out of the Lord Holders’ hair while tithes go up.”

Because a pregnant golden dragon meant all the nearby Holds had been contacted for extra herdbeasts and wherries right away, and the distant Holds were to send more in time for the hatching. Baby dragons ate a _lot._ Chojohrnen was a little unsure on the _how_ they ate; you couldn’t expect a baby to catch its own food. Was Nemorth going to live out by the feeding grounds and catch, kill, and disembowel herdbeasts for her hatchlings? Or did their new riders do all that? Would he need to brush up his wherry-snaring skills again?

 _You won’t need to if you don’t Impress,_ the back of Chojohrnen’s mind hissed. He told it to shut up.

“Is that why Gathers are such a hassle now too?” Esme asked dryly. Chojohrnen blamed her entirely for S’ten boring their table to death. Chojohrnen had finally gotten Junpei to sit with him and D’nis for once, lured in by the promise of D’nis’s wingmates talking to them like they all had _brains_ and deserved to air their opinions, and Esme promptly dragged Anjali over too. Which meant S’ten had come.

“That’s for safety,” S’ten said. “How we _should_ have been doing it all along.”

“The old way—” Junpei started to say, in a very even, polite tone.

“Was too risky,” S’ten cut in, before even hearing if Junpei was about to agree or disagree with him. Chojohrnen huffed in annoyance.

The Weyrleaders of D’nis’s youth had simply asked their riders to let the watch pair know where they were going, and the dragons with retired riders had collectively tracked who was taking Lower Caverns workers and weyrbrats out. The bronze council, after F’lon died, forbade travel west of Crom _entirely,_ except for a few very limited patrols, probably because the duty ballads dictated it or some other _traditional_ reason that Chojohrnen didn’t care about. They’d also made the wingseconds scout the major Holds each season, before allowing weyrfolk to visit the Gathers.

Now _every_ trip the dragonriders took had to be cleared with their wingleaders, none of the Holds had been cleared as friendly for the infrequent summer Gathers, and all the nonrider weyrfolk had to get permission _directly_ from Headwoman Manora to leave the Weyr. She was threatening to lock up the klah stores if R’gul didn’t grant permission for her to appoint delegates soon.

It made Chojohrnen antsy, knowing dragonriders were just as hampered by controlling assholes as everyone else. S’ten’s rudeness didn’t help.

“Let the lad speak,” D’nis said mildly. “He knows the risks of unfriendly Gathers firsthand.”

S’ten frowned. “Not like we do—”

“And we don’t know them like he does,” D’nis cut in, voice firmer, then turned away from S’ten to look down the table at Junpei. Good. “You were saying?”

“...the old way worked,” Junpei said, making sure to look at D’nis, ignoring S’ten’s eye-roll, and then at the rest of the table. “But it _was_ risky to only send single wingseconds as scouts. If they sent an entire wing at a time, it would have given a broader perspective on the Hold’s mood, and been safer for the riders.”

D’nis and a few of his wingmates murmured agreement. Chojohrnen grinned. Anjali smiled across the table at Junpei and said, “That does sound less risky.”

“It endangers a whole wing instead of a single rider,” S’ten said, scowling. Junpei didn’t bother defending his idea further, just blinked slowly and kept his expression neutral. “This is _exactly_ why candidates aren’t worth listening too.”

“What, just ‘cause _you_ disagree?” Esme snapped, before Chojohrnen could. D’nis must have felt him tense up, though, because he slipped his arm off Chojohrnen’s shoulders, so he could stand up fast if he wanted. Shards, why did Esme have to bring Anjali with her? They could see Anjali during chores, they didn’t need to put up with her stupid weyrmate at meals.

“I think it’s a good idea,” greenrider L’deni said.

“Me too,” bluerider K'sawa added. Chojohrnen was _pretty_ sure he and L’deni were weyrmates, but they might’ve just been close friends whose dragons were attracted to each other.

Chojohrnen got the feeling that, in different company, S’ten might’ve said blue and greenriders weren’t worth listening to either. But he wasn’t _quite_ blockheaded enough to say it to a table full of them. Or maybe it was Junpei’s presence, no matter how dismissive S’ten was on the surface. Everyone said Junpei’d get brown or bronze, and with Nemorth pregnant that moment of truth was just a few months away. He wasn’t a random weyrbrat anymore, he was a candidate that could, very shortly, equal S’ten in rank. Maybe surpass him. And Junpei clearly respected the elder riders regardless of color.

 _Unless he doesn’t Impress either,_ Chojohrnen’s mind suggested again. _Maybe neither of you will and you’ll have to fight to stay._ Which was an extremely uncomfortable thing to think about, sitting across from Anjali, who Esme had said would get her own dorm bunk if she broke up with S’ten, not just get dumped back in that little river hold she came from. _Anjali’s good with herbs and healing. The Weyr wants her. What are_ you _good at, that riders can’t just get whenever their dragons rise?_ Chojohrnen told his brain to shut up more firmly and started humming a particularly violent ballad under his breath.

Anjali took pity on S’ten after a long moment of awkward silence and asked Esme if it was true all the Lower Caverns workers would be allowed to witness the hatching.

“Oh, sure, if we’re not stuck in the kitchens,” Esme said. _“You_ shouldn’t be; the Headwoman tries to make sure everyone who’s never seen one before gets a chance, unless you _really_ piss her off.”

~

Every day crawled like molasses, yet somehow Junpei blinked and summer was gone. Headwoman Manora’s map sprouted dozens of chalk marks as autumn raced along, locations of known marsh oil growths and their estimated ripeness dates. Esme passed on word that Manora and Sanners feared they wouldn’t get to _any_ Gathers until spring, if then, and were planning all the expeditions to the wild lands accordingly.

“Low quality herdbeasts are fine,” Rishall signed, as she and Junpei walked back from checking the latest batch of bovine for illness or injury. “As long as they send _lots_ more. The hatchlings won’t care. But the oils they sent last autumn were _barely_ good enough for our beasties’ hooves, let alone dragon hides.”

“First trip to the marshes soon?” Junpei asked.

“Yes.”

“Take me with you,” Junpei begged. Maybe on a gathering expedition he’d get to see Gullers.

Rishall laughed and patted his back sympathetically. None of the candidates were allowed a-dragonback now; the spectre of Weyrleader S’loner and Lord Holder Maidir still haunted Benden Weyr decades later. Dragons suicided when their riders died. S’loner suffered a heart attack while taking Maidir home, and Chendith never came out of _between._ With only twenty-two candidates, and Nemorth’s old clutches ranging from nineteen to twenty-four eggs, R’gul refused to risk another passenger fatality.

R’gul _also_ refused to risk angering the Lord Holders by conducting an early Search, or strain the Weyr resources by accepting more fosterlings than usual. “We’re not counting eggs before they’re laid,” he told the rest of the bronzeriders. “We’ll have five weeks to bring in candidates, _if necessary,_ once Nemorth lays.”

At least, that was what F’lar _said_ he’d said. The young wingleader kept spending all his meals in the dining cavern, completely ignoring the pulley system in his weyr that let him call up food from below. K’ban and a few of the oldest bronzeriders were doing the same. Like they were afraid people had forgotten about them.

“Maybe if they’d spent six Turns trying to impress _us_ instead of _each other_ their dragons would have had half a shot with Nemorth,” Esme quipped, washing dishes with Junpei after one particularly long lunch when F’lar and K’ban got into a debate at their table over the merits of clearing greenery from Holds’ fire-heights. “And why do they keep dragging _you_ into it?”

“They’re asking _all_ the older candidates about Thread,” Junpei explained. So far, he’d managed to keep his answers to a neutral hum, that the wingleaders interpreted how they pleased. Their opinion of him didn’t matter. The _dragons’_ did, and no one agreed how they chose.

Not that that stopped anyone from speculating. No one could make up their minds what color Earl was likely to get, if he even Impressed at all. They’d been _sure_ a few Turns back Omoriel would get green, but then he started spending his free time with Tinall, and general opinion swung to blue (no one thought he was steady enough for brown). Chojohrnen rolled his eyes whenever he overheard _that_ bit of gossip. “Half the dragons are green, aren’t they?” he pointed out. “Can you _imagine_ my life if half the men on Pern were inverts?”

“I’d like to imagine _mine_ if half the women were,” Rishall said dryly, and Esme cackled at the horrified expression an eavesdropping brownrider made.

If Junpei kept very, very busy, he could _almost_ avoid the speculation about himself. 

Watching little kids was the best. With candidates barred from gathering expeditions, more Lower Caverns workers were needed to go, so it was a task he could always volunteer for. The youngest candidates wanted a distraction too, Tolley and Tollara wanted to talk about their older brothers’ chances, not his, and the rest could be counted on to embrace songs, games, and story-time.

Chores with other teens went mostly fine, the other candidates full of nerves, the girls either kind or bitter enough to not bring it up. Gullers spent less and less time with him, the heavier Nemorth became, which hurt. It wasn’t surprising, it happened last time too, and Esme swore Gullers wasn’t mad at _him,_ but...it hurt.

Anything that took him near the adults was a complete disaster. None of them seemed to realize that going on about how _obviously_ he was going to Impress just served as a reminder that he might _not._ Rally hadn’t been good enough. What if he wasn’t either? What if none of them were? What if they all burned up on the sands, waiting and waiting, and the hatchlings didn’t _want_ them, hatchlings that didn’t Impress just _died_ in all the ballads, what if they weren’t good enough and they _died—_

“Shards!” Chojohrnen jumped away from the half-washed cookpot rolling across the stone floor. “What the hell— hey, are you— Junpei, come on, look at me.” Chojohrnen grabbed Junpei’s shoulders, dripping dishwater down his sleeves, and turned him away from the sink. “Breath. I don’t know where the hell you are right now, but you have to breath.” Chojohrnen pressed his forehead against Junpei’s, steady as a river.

It took an embarrassingly long time to calm down. He kept choking back up, trying to stop himself from crying. He couldn’t cry all over the sinks. That would just stress everyone else out too.

“Scorch it,” Chojohrnen muttered, and slung an arm around Junpei to pull him out of the kitchen.

“We can’t just—” Junpei got out, and hiccupped.

“Yes we damned well can,” Chojohrnen said, and then they were heading down a low, narrow tunnel that circumvented the dining cavern to reach the dorms. “It’s just dishes. You can leave a chore undone for _once_ in your ridiculous life. What are they going to do, kick us out before the Hatching?”

“What if they do?” Junpei whispered hoarsely. Chojohrnen started cussing and didn’t stop until they sat down on his bunk.

“—what fucking kind of wherry-buggering dim-glows put a stupid idea like _that_ in your head? Was it Jelally? I thought I saw her and Luceel stopping by your sink—”

“They think I’m getting bronze.”

“Serve F’lar and his fucking ‘oh you’ll be such a great wing _second’_ bullshit right if you did,” Chojohrnen spat. Junpei wrapped his arms around himself, one hand squeezing tight over the old scars on his arm. Chojohrnen kept one hand on his back and kept talking. “Are you worried there won’t be one? Maybe there’s only going to be one egg. The smallest clutch in all of Pern. Just one really, _really_ big egg. Gold.” Chojohrnen swept his other hand out in front of them. “The biggest gold egg ever! And they’ll tell us oh no, boys can’t Impress golds, but will that stop me? No! I’ll Stand with all the girls, and the hatchling will pick me because I’m amazing, and I’ll be the first Weyr _man_ of Pern.”

Junpei snorted out something that might have been a laugh. Chojohrnen grinned at him triumphantly.

“Jora will want to hand over Records Room maintenance to her new apprentice as soon as possible, so you’ll have to stick around to teach me to read. And of course when my dragon has her first flight, you’ll be there with me, and it won’t matter how old you are because _my_ dragon’s hatchlings will know how great you are.” His hand slid up Junpei’s back to touch his scarred arm. “Even if Nemorth’s didn’t.”

~

“This is a disaster,” Chojohrnen declared, hands on his hips, surveying his favorite storage room. It was stuffed to the ceiling with tithing goods, crates and barrels stacked in the aisles between shelves. Which was the complete opposite of a disaster. “Empty was just terrible, but half full was great! I liked half full. We could move stuff around for privacy. Now there’s no room to do anything!”

There were dozens of empty dorms to make time in, of course, with Benden Weyr’s population so low, but they were dusty, and probably haunted. Even after a Turn here, he didn’t like going too far down the back corridors. Sneaking along with a glowbasket and Junpei to explore was different from picking a spot where you’d stay for awhile.

D’nis sat down on a crate near the door, leaned back, tucked his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. “You know,” he murmured, tired and damp from a patrol through an autumnal rainstorm over Ista. “Aldamth likes you.”

“I like him too,” Chojohrnen said, and nudged a barrel with his toe. It didn’t budge. “The girls dibs’d all the other make-out spots when the first tithing train rolled in.” They didn’t like the creepy, uninhabited dorms any more than he did. “Maybe I can bribe Rishall to give up hers for a bit. We need it more than she does, unless Esme was lying when she said weyrlings can’t screw for a Turn or two after Impression.”

“Shards, I forgot about that,” D’nis groaned. He leaned forward again, wiping a hand down his face. “The old Weyrlingmaster threatened to dump buckets of snow-melt on some of us.”

“Bet I can make you forget more stuff,” Chojohrnen said with a grin. He straddled D’nis’s lap and melted into a kiss. They’d be fine here for a while; he could hear anyone coming along the tunnels toward them, if he didn’t get too carried away. D’nis hummed happily, kissing back, and settled his hands around Chojohrnen’s hips.

If Chojohrnen was being honest with himself, he wanted to do some forgetting too right now. He could call himself a _future dragonrider_ and joke about Impressing gold all he liked, but if he _didn’t_ get a dragon this time...he had to. There was no way Nemorth would rise again before he was twenty, and what then? They make him leave?

Nemorth wasn’t good to remember either. _Because someone with a great big fuck-off dragon like that needs people being_ told _not to bother her,_ he’d sarcastically said once about Jora, and not understood the strange way Junpei said _yes_ to that. Now he knew. Now he’d seen the bronzes ganging up on her, seen what everyone assured him was the strongest creature in the world harried and starved. If the bronzes could bully the queen, what could they do to any dragon _Chojohrnen_ Impressed?

“Mmm thought, there was a thought,” D’nis said a little later. He stroked his thumbs back and forth, just under Chojohrnen’s shirt. It was very nice and very distracting. They should keep doing that instead of thinking. “Aldamth likes you.”

“Mm?” That was a good sign for his chances, right? Like the rider at the Gather all those Turns ago saying he had dragonsense, saying his blue had noticed Chojohrnen in the crowd.

“He’d let you ride him solo, if you wanted to come back down from our weyr and I was too sleepy to fly.” Oh, _not_ talking about his chances. Which was good, he didn’t want to think about that. Yes. Okay. D’nis kissed him again. “I know you don’t want to spend the night, let alone be weyrmates—”

 _Want_ wasn’t exactly the right word. Chojohrnen _wanted_ to do a lot of filthy things with D’nis and then sleep without worrying about the morning, but he didn’t _trust_ himself to. He still woke up swinging a fist sometimes, cracked his knuckles more than once on the empty bunk above his. His dormmates were used to it. D’nis wasn’t.

“—but we don’t _have_ to sneak around back here.”

“But…” Chojohrnen frowned. Just fly up to D’nis’s weyr whenever they wanted? “That would make us...obvious.”

D’nis slowly tilted his head back until it thumped against the wall, and raised his eyebrows.

Chojohrnen flushed. “So we ran around the Gathers holding hands just to rub it in everyone’s faces, but that’s, you know, Gathers. Neither of us was _from_ there. You’re _from_ here. I can’t just...can’t just flaunt what we’re doing and leave you...to...cope…”

Chojohrnen trailed off. D’nis waited.

“Winds and Rains I’m an _idiot,”_ Chojohrnen said, standing back up so he could pace in the tiny amount of floorspace by the door. How had he done this? Kept telling his brain to _shut up, shut up,_ about not Impressing, trying to plan arguments for why he should get to stay, and at the exact same time live like he’d be leaving any minute. Shells, he’d barely bothered to learn the names of people he didn’t work with every week! Kept his travel bag packed under his bed, seperate from the clothes chest with the Weyr hand-me-downs.

“I’m not leaving this time!” Chojohrnen shoved his hands into his hair. “Shards, I _came here_ because everyone badmouthed the Weyr for being full of queers! I wouldn’t have even danced with you that first time if I hadn’t spent half the night watching other men doing the same thing, and nobody giving them crap for it! We could’ve started fooling around in your weyr _months_ ago!”

“Why didn’t we?” D’nis asked, in that calm way he had that Chojohrnen found soothing. The question wasn’t because he thought Chojohrnen was stupid, wasn’t just to make Chojohrnen realize there _wasn’t_ a reason. It was because he knew there must be one, and could wait a century for Chojohrnen to tell him.

“Because…” Chojohrnen thumped down onto one of the crates, hands still fisted in his hair. “Because it always had to be secret, before. If it was for fun. The Traders knew and didn’t care, but everyone else was _stuck._ I couldn’t just breeze in and get them _caught.”_ If it wasn’t secret, then it was business, but he didn’t want to talk about that, not today, not when he felt so suddenly reckless and weirdly light. He dropped his hands down to his knees, then bounced back onto his feet, and pointed at D’nis.

“You know how you keep picking me up, ‘cause the floors back here are uneven?” Chojohrnen grinned. “And how great that is?”

“Yeah?” D’nis’s smile slowly turned into a grin that looked as sharp as Chojohrnen’s felt.

“We’re going to your weyr, and you’re going to pick me up and _throw me on the bed._ Got it?”

D’nis laughed, reaching for Chojohrnen’s hands for help standing up, then spun them both out into the corridor. “That,” he said, dipping Chojohrnen like they were in the middle of the Turn’s End dance again, “sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in my entire life.”

~

To Headwoman Manora’s consternation, not only did Nemorth begin laying her clutch as a tithing train arrived in the unloading cavern, but little Tolley ran to tell his sister Tollara at the top of his lungs. The news spread from the younger weyrbrats to the teens and adults in less time than it took a dragon to glide across the Bowl; people abandoned their chores for “just a few minutes, I promise!” all day to watch the process. Earl smugly collected wager winnings from Lower Caverns workers and dragonriders, who weren’t used to his prediction skills the way the other weyrbrats were.

“So she clutched at the start of Tenth month after flying in Seventh, why was that worth wagering over?” Chojohrnen asked, watching Earl grin impudently at a cussing bluerider. “Isn’t there a whole song about draconic gestation?” He hummed the tune wondering if he’d remembered the numbers in it right. _Count three months and more, and five heated weeks, a day or glory, in a month, who seeks?_ Chojohrnen seeks, that’s who. Searched himself. Dragons ought to like him coming on his own; humans wanted to be wanted, surely dragons did too?

“There’s a few days leeway,” Esme said. “But most of his bets were on it being the same day as one of the tithes, and _those_ are far less certain.” She poked a dubious tuber from Bitra’s recent delivery with her peeling tool.

Chojohrnen snuck off for a peek on his way to bring fresh herbs to Anjali. His dragon’s egg was in there. It _was._ He was going to be a dragonrider and never get chased out of anywhere by canines or armed men _ever again._

Or trapped, either.

A few other people lingered in the Hatching Ground entryway, politely pretending not to see each other. There wasn’t much to see, for all Chojohrnen felt like a coiled spring. Nemorth hunched over the first few eggs, wings mantled, hiding them from view. The autumn sunlight beaming down from the high openings ringing the Hatching Ground flashed on her wings with her every movement. When Nemorth had risen, her hide had been bright, glowing. Now it was the darkest gold Chojohrnen had ever seen, a burnished color the weyrfolk said was a sign of a healthy pregnancy.

Jora sat on a folding chair nearby, feet propped comfortably up above the hot sands on a matching footstool, both obviously dragged down from her weyr. She wore the same blue dress Chojohrnen had first seen her in, still jewel-like in the sunbeam, but visibly ragged-hemmed and badly stained even at this distance. A length of dark brown fabric lay across her lap, part of it trapped in an embroidery hoop, which Jora focused on rather than acknowledging the curious weyrfolk.

The feline that favored the herb garden for sunning sauntered past everyone and flopped down at the edge of the Hatching sands, where the hotter grains spilled out and cooled on the stone entryway. Nemorth hissed. The feline promptly got up and sauntered away again. Chojohrnen did too, much faster, every hair on the back of his neck standing up. He could see the eggs later! They had a month or so, didn’t they? No need to bother Nemorth while she was laying!

“Oh dear, what’s chasing you?” Anjali asked, when Chojohrnen reached the still-room. She set her pestle down, taking the herbs from his hands.

“My own foolishness,” Chojohrnen said ruefully. “I should have known better than to spy on a lady at a busy moment.” Anjali frowned, puzzled. “Nemorth,” Chojohrnen added hastily. The frown cleared, followed by a laugh.

 _“You_ think I’ll Impress, right?” Chojohrnen blurted out. Anjali blinked, eyebrows going up. Then she set the herbs aside and gestured for him to sit on the other work stool.

“Everyone’s been very...vague,” Anjali said, once Chojohrnen was sitting. He chewed on a knuckle and bounced his knee. “I’ve heard all the gossip about what _color_ everyone’s likely to get, but not anything about...I don’t know, whether the hatchlings care more about personality or how strong a dragonsense a candidate has, or if confidence matters or if that’s just what they tell you all to keep you in place.”

“Yeah,” Chojohrnen said. He’d been listening heavily to the gossip too, trying to make sense of it all. “But what do _you_ think?”

“I think any dragon would be lucky to have you as their rider,” Anjali said sweetly, and patted Chojohrnen’s hand over his knee.

“Lucky to have any of the other candidates, too,” Chojohrnen pointed out. He dropped his elbows onto his knees and shoved his fingers through his hair, staring at the floor of the still-room. “I didn’t even realize how many kids were over ten here until everyone started fussing over robes! It won’t matter how amazing I am if it comes down to a _numbers_ game!” He dug his fingers in harder, curling over his knees, the stool creaking ominously. “I don’t want to leave! My family’s not like yours, Anjali. If I get kicked out of the Weyr—”

“Then you can come with me to Fort,” Anjali said firmly. Chojohrnen shook his head. “My father only objected to my apprenticing because the road to the Healer Hall is so treacherous, which isn’t a problem for dragonriders. I’m enjoying life here very much, but I _am_ going to apprentice someday. You can come with me and become a harper.”

“A _harper?”_ Chojohrnen echoed, so surprised he flung his arms out and nearly rocked backwards off the stool.

Anjali blushed a little. “Did I guess wrong? Esme told me about you collecting songs and stories. I thought you’d like that idea.”

“No, I...I mean it’s fine, I just...can you imagine me as a teacher? Or a _mediator?”_ Anjali giggled. “An entertainer, sure. And I guess I could gather gossip to turn into songs. But…” Chojohrnen ran a hand down his face with a sigh. “I can’t go out there. Not Fort, it’s too close to—” Chojohrnen snapped his mouth shut. Then made himself take a deep breath. “Anjali, I’d rather fight Thread every single day than live on the same half of the continent as my father.”

“Well even if F’lar and those other believers are right,” Anjali said. “You’ll have over a decade with your dragon before you have to do that.”

“My dragon,” Chojohrnen said, looking at her hopefully. “You really think so?”

Anjali smiled at him. “If anyone’s going to Impress out of sheer determination, Chojohrnen, it’s you.”

~

An oddly morose, “Hey,” was the only warning Junpei got before Esme launched herself off a flour barrel and onto his back. He staggered forward a few feet, throwing a hand out for balance, and almost dropped his ledger.

“You better keep sorting this as long as you can,” Esme said, arms wrapped tight around his chest, knees bracing just under his ribs. Junpei stepped sideways until they reached an empty shelf; Esme dropped her feet down onto it, taking off some of her weight. “Maybe take the long way around to mending, after. Dad’s in a _mood.”_

“Mm,” Junpei said. Esme had to mean R’gul; she’d specify “my dad” for either of the other two, and they didn’t have any more authority over Junpei than the other dragonriders anyway. He turned a bit so he could keep tallying tithe goods without dropping her. “Shouldn’t he be happy? Nemorth started laying Hath’s clutch yesterday.”

Hath’s first, and Nemorth’s fourth. Junpei hadn’t been alive for her first, twenty eggs sired by S’loner’s Chendith, and he’d been too young to really remember her second, nineteen by F’lon’s Simanith. He’d snuck down the back tunnels to the secret spying spot with the other weyrbrats to see her lay the last one, though. Six Turns ago. Twenty-four eggs, so many it took her three days to lay them, when the other clutches just took two. The oldest weyrfolk scoffed that Nemorth was lazy, that Feyrith and Lidith could squeeze out two dozen eggs in half a day, but his grandfather always said they were misremembering.

“She _stopped_ laying yesterday, too,” Esme said bitterly. She hugged Junpei tighter when he jerked, shocked. “Have you been in here all day? Those twelve are all there are.”

“No, I…” Junpei had eaten breakfast early, trekked across the Bowl with a packed lunch to help Rishall with the tithed herdbeasts all morning, then come straight to the storage caverns to double-check the Headwoman’s inventory. “...only twelve?” That couldn’t be right. It _couldn’t._

“No gold, either, to make up for it.” Esme dropped her head down, forehead resting on Junpei’s shoulder, and let out a weary, whispery laugh. “All the other bronzeriders are saying how much better their dragon would have done, even the ones that didn’t want to win, who only rose because queens _make_ the bronzes chase. Dad’s ignoring them, saying this proves he was right not to bring in more candidates, that everyone else was foolish for suggesting it, but...not even he can claim such a tiny clutch is good.”

Junpei pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, thoughts racing so fast they tripped over each other. People brought up her clutch of nineteen like it was a _betrayal_ to lay so few, after they’d lost twenty-four dragons to that winter fever. Then there were all the normal losses, age and accidents. F’lon’s murder.

Twelve new dragons after six Turns wasn’t enough.

And what if it took nine Turns before the next clutch, what if it was even _smaller,_ what if Nemorth _never_ laid a gold? The records said queens matured at two and a half Turns, with late risers closer to four, but Nemorth had been _seven._ Her first mating flight hadn’t been until Feyrith was _dead._

“F’lar’s already saying this is a sign of the Weyr’s failings,” Esme went on, her voice turning harsh, angry. “Like F’lon used to say about how infrequently Nemorth rose, that if we all worked hard to get ready for Thread, the queen would rise more. The oldest bronzes are pissed, since he’s insulting _them_ along with Dad, they’re saying this means Thread _isn’t_ coming, and I don’t know who’s right, Junpei, I don’t _know,_ and what happens if there’s no gold egg next time, either? What if there never is? When are they going to admit something’s _wrong?”_

Esme’s frustrated rant cut off in a burst of tears. Junpei twisted around, out of her tight grip for a second so he could wrap his arms around her in a real hug. She sobbed against his chest, and he hid his face in her hair.

“I hate them!” Esme choked out. “I hate them! I hate duty and tradition and ballads!” Her hands balled into fists around the back of his tunic. “Where’s the _duty_ in five empty Weyrs? Where’s the _tradition_ in insulting our Weyrwoman and queen? What _ballad_ will the harpers sing when they die and we’re left with nothing?”

“I know,” Junpei said, because what else could he say? He recognized the terror in her hatred, twin to his own, and clung to her. “I know, I know—”

“Everyone knows! And nobody _does_ anything!”

“I will,” Junpei promised desperately. He didn’t know what. How did you make a golden dragon egg appear out of nothing? Or make a queen fly? Or convince old men that if Thread wasn’t coming, their traditions were _useless,_ and something needed to change? Even just splitting the dragons and riders between two Weyrs instead of sitting here _trapped_ in Benden would be better, save them from the disaster of another fever!

And if Thread _was_ coming...

“I will,” Junpei repeated, sick with fear at the thought. “I’ll change it. I will.”

~

Every weyrbrat who’d learned their teaching ballads from Weyrsinger C’gan already knew the childish weyrling songs about hatchings and dragonet care. Chojohrnen knew bits of them now, picked up as chore partners sang as they worked, but not any of them in full.

C'gan was also the Weyrlingmaster, appointed by F’lon to train Siminath’s second (and final, though F’lon hadn’t known that) clutch. Rishall quietly told Chojohrnen once it was the smartest thing F’lon had ever done. Every single one of those weyrlings lived to join wings. The same could not be said of previous clutches trained by C’gan’s hidebound, inflexible predecessor.

In the month after Nemorth laid her clutch, C’gan tracked down the fosterlings who’d come to Benden later in life and told them the basics of Standing, reminding the weyrbred candidates too. Once you’re in the circle, don’t move, and don’t be afraid. The hatchlings confuse easily. If you get hurt, stay where you are, help will come when it’s all over.

 _“And,”_ C’gan ended firmly, sticking his finger up under Chojohrnen’s nose, which really wasn’t fair when the women were hemming up his candidate robes so he couldn’t step back. “Don’t go fooling around with that weyrmate of yours for a whole _Turn.”_

Chojohrnen bit his tongue against correcting to ‘boyfriend’; sticking to the holder term got him strange looks, even though ‘weyrmate’ was hardly accurate with Chojohrnen still living in the dorms. And once he Impressed he’d be in the barracks. You couldn’t really describe _any_ weyrling as having a weyrmate, could you? If he didn’t Impress he could insist on sticking around in the dorms until he really _did_ age out of candidacy, ignore all their complaints about Nemorth’s long cycle, pretend optimism. After that...maybe Gullers would show him which back tunnels were the least haunted and he could ghost around like she did. He’d barely seen a glimpse of her for _months_ now, it was unnerving.

Or he could do like Anjali had and move in with his boyfriend but that felt...too much. Pushing things too far. He _liked_ D’nis. Liked passing an afternoon in his weyr, Aldamth dozing on the ledge. Spending the night? Risking D’nis seeing the nightmares, the violent way he woke some mornings? No, thanks. Bad enough his dormmates knew what a mess he was.

C’gan turned in a circle to point his gnarled finger at the four other teen candidates being fitted too. Fosterling Lomerik, and weyrbred Earl, Nolaris, and Konatis. Junpei and Omoriel were on laundry duty, robes gotten earlier. “That goes for all of you. No sexual activities until your dragons mature. The feedback’s bad for ‘em.”

“Not even a wank?” Earl asked. The woman pinning up his sleeves smacked the back of his head. Chojohrnen realized she was one of the people whose name he hadn’t learned, never working with her directly, subconsciously assuming he’d leave soon, not _needing_ to know. Shells. “Ow! What? It’s a real question! You know how green flights make everyone feel.”

C’gan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No sexual activity with or _near_ another person. You can go work yourself out in your bunk with the curtain down, _alone._ There. Any other questions?”

“Yeah, how come these are wool?” Chojorhnen asked, pinching the sleeve of his robe. Nice safe question. “We’re going to be standing Faranth knows how long on _burning hot sands_ and you put us in _wool._ Why not linen?”

“Tradition,” C’gan and the women with pins chorused. C’gan left before anyone could ask anything else. Soon the Lower Caverns workers left too, leaving the boys to stitch all the hemming in place themselves. Nolaris and Konatis sang pieces of the weyrling songs as they worked. Earl regaled Lomerik with details of the last hatching.

Chojohrnen debated just bundling the robes up and working outside, even with the cold. He didn’t want to hear about candidates being left alone on the sands. That wouldn’t be him. The hatchlings couldn’t possibly care what a mess he was; look at all the _other_ dragonriders! He’d walk off those sands with his dragon. He would.

“Ouch!” Lomerik pricked his finger on a needle, one tiny drop of blood staining his robes. “Aw…”

“You know,” Earl said, leaning towards him. “That’s the _real_ reason they put us in these things…”

“What?”

 _“Eggs in hot sands, boys in white robes,”_ Nolaris sang. _“Circle rounder than a shell, hope your courage holds.”_ Was courage really all it took? Courage, dragonsense, and luck? Please don’t be luck, Chojohrnen’s was _shit._

“That,” Earl said, pointing to the drop of blood with his needle. “They’re wool so we don’t get the shivers, too hot to be afraid, but it’s white so they can see all the blood.”

 _“Feed them all day, oil them all night,”_ Konatis sang, picking up the tune from his brother. _“The other way too, dragonets grow up all right.”_ Be ready to feed the babies at all hours, sure. Did they really need a song for that? By the Winds, he _still_ didn’t know how hatchlings fed. If it was part of a teaching song, that probably meant the weyrlings took care of it, at least, not the mama dragon.

“You’ve seen Omoriel’s scars,” Earl pressed on. Lomerik squeaked. “He got it the worst, but they clawed up half the rejects, and some of the new riders, too.” Chojohrnen sighed. Great. Just what he needed; _more_ maiming. “They bleach out what they can, but some robes get so stained they _can’t._ You know how some of the girls wore those bright red dresses at Turn’s End?”

“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Chojohrnen interrupted. Junpei probably could have made Earl stop scaring Lomerik with just a look, but he wasn’t here. “Blood stains dry brown, not red.” He didn’t need to know anything about Hatchings, dragons, or weyr tradition to know about _blood._

“Er...yeah!” Earl tried to get the winter-fire story menace back in his voice, but the twins were singing even louder, so he had to pitch himself up to be heard. “They dyed them red to cover up the stains—”

“Except no one tithes dyes to the Weyr, and you _know_ Gullers would rather just spend the marks on red fabric than take the time to dye it herself.” Chojohrnen grinned reassuringly at Lomerik. “Just imagine Rishall’s face, if someone told her to dance in this thing.”

Lomerik laughed. Earl rolled his eyes and went back to stitching, muttering irritably under his breath.

 _“No hatchling left alone, no egg unhatched,”_ Nolaris and Konatis sang together. _“Dragon and rider are perfectly matched.”_

~

“How come she’s never this firm any other time?” Esme asked, toothing her thumb speculatively as she and Junpei hung laundry. It gave them a clear view of the entrance to the Hatching Ground as R’gul stormed out of it. “Anjali said that S’ten said that Dad’s pissed ‘cause all the _proper_ queen dragons let the Weyrleader examine the eggs for the archives, but Nemorth won’t let anyone get close.”

Junpei could only shrug. Getting too close to the Hatching Ground made his head feel strange.

“She even got a couple of the dragons with retired riders to come nap around the edges,” Esme went on. “So there’s a guard when she goes to feed. You’d think if Dad really cared about _proper_ behavior, Hath would be in there _helping_ Nemorth— aw, crap.”

R’gul strode towards the laundry lines, thunderous expression easing into his regular stern look with each long step. He stopped in front of Junpei, ignoring Esme. Junpei could see her stick her tongue out rudely from the corner of his eye.

“You’ve gotten your robes?” R’gul asked.

“Yesterday, sir,” Junpei said.

“Good. Should be less than a sevenday, now.” Ignoring the ludicrous faces Esme pulled at him while hanging shirts, rather than chastising her for disrespect, was a sign of either his paternal fondness, or how stressed and distracted he must be. R’gul clasped Junpei’s shoulder. “I trust you to get all your dormmates to the sands, when it starts.”

Junpei nodded. The warm glow of _I trust you_ burned strangely amid the dismay at how the Weyrleader treated the Weyrwoman. If Junpei could live up to that trust, could keep it burning, maybe he could convince R’gul that the council’s decision was wrong. That _F’lon_ had been wrong. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” R’gul’s grip on Junpei’s shoulder tightened, hard, as though he’d slipped from Hath and that grip was the only thing keeping him from plummeting from the sky. “You’ll do well.” Junpei reached his hand up, to offer comfort against that sudden desperation his father’s face refused to show, but R’gul let go and strode away.


	9. Hatching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2494, Late Autumn

The last Hatching had been late enough in the day for the feast to be ready, the Masterharper and other guests to arrive, and all the candidates to get sick with nerves.

This time the draconic welcoming hum began as the sun’s morning rays broke over the horizon, nearly halfway into the cold eleventh month of the Turn. R’gul had not invited guests, nor had anyone else requested any. The Lower Caverns workers swore themselves blue as they rushed to get everything ready, most grumbling that at this rate they wouldn’t get to watch the hatching themselves.

_ Still sick with nerves,  _ Junpei thought, anxiously counting heads as they hurried from the Lower Caverns to the Hatching Ground. Twenty-one sleep-addled faces atop white wool robes, plus himself. That  _ should _ be enough candidates for a dozen eggs. Shells, they were all so  _ young; _ over half must be under fourteen, most closer to ten. Chojohrnen and Earl split off to either side once they passed the archway, keeping everyone together as they crossed the sands.

“Hey.”

Gullers grabbed Junpei’s arm before he could follow. He half-turned, shocked to hear her voice after so many months without her.

“Sorry, for…” Gullers shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll be here this time.” She let go of his arm and shoved him towards the clutch. “Now go get the best. For all of us.”

Blueriders hurried in with bandages and pots of numbweed, their clothes in disarray from being woken so early. The eggs rocked frantically. C’gan shouted at someone to go start chopping up herdbeasts. Junpei caught up with the other candidates, voicing reassurances he didn’t believe that there wasn’t anything to be scared of, encouraging the younger ones to stop bunching up and form the circle, making sure an older candidate was placed between every few. Chojohrnen flashed him a nervous grin from close by in the circle.

The Weyrleader arrived on Hath, gliding in from a high entrance, circling the entire Hatching Ground slowly before settling with dignity at the traditional edge of the sands reserved for the clutch parents and their riders.

Weyrwoman Jora was not with them. She was already in the Hatching Ground, lounging comfortably atop Nemorth’s front legs behind the clutch. Last time she’d stood properly next to F’lon, nervous, sweaty, clutching at the skirts of her pretty dress, feet undoubtedly burning. Now Jora caught sight of Junpei and raised one hand to wiggle her fingers. Junpei smiled weakly, glancing around to count heads again, and waved back. R’gul glared at the Weyrwoman.

Nemorth raised her head higher, golden throat vibrating with the welcoming hum. Riders and dragons still flooded in, some nonrider weyrfolk as well, wincing at the hot sands as they dashed to the viewing gallery. The hum grew louder, higher-pitched, more insistent.

Stopped.

Two eggs cracked open, wet claws and snouts breaking them apart, knocking into other eggs, cracking their shells too. Chojohrnen sucked in a sharp breath. Took one step forward. A green hatchling struggling with her shell shrieked in frustration. A blue clutchmate bowled her over, out of her shell, onto the hot sand. Chojohrnen ran to help her up, then stayed on his knees, gasping as she wrapped her wings around him. Junpei had never seen such a look on his face before, happiness so exultant it transcended joy.

More shells shattered, too many to track, the sound of cracking eggs filling the air. Ravenous hatchlings stumbled over the sands, creeling, knocking candidates and each other aside. You were supposed to stay still unless you needed to dodge, supposed to wait for your baby dragon to find you. Junpei heard a younger candidate cry out in pain— his feet took off before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to move. Nolaris lay on his side, arm bleeding, a brown hatchling with dripping claws stumbling away.

None of the watching blueriders moved to help; the white robes showed the blood, showed who needed medical help, but they wouldn’t take a candidate off the sands until  _ all _ the hatchlings had Impressed. Junpei squeezed his hands around Nolaris’s bleeding arm. Why didn’t the candidate gowns have any  _ sashes, _ why were they so hard for human hands to  _ tear  _ but so easy for a  _ hatchling— _

_ “Hurts,” _ Nolaris keened.

“I know, I know, you’ll be all right—”

“It hurts, I can’t find her, it hurts, I can’t find her,  _ where is she it hurts—” _

Junpei looked around frantically. Only half the clutch had Impressed so far, new riders and their dragons stumbling towards the entrance. A brown hatchling’s anxious creels turned into peeps of relief when he found one of the youngest candidates. A blue hatchling near them whined unhappily, trying to shove past.

_ I FOUND YOU! _

Junpei twisted around, towards the voice, hands still tight on Nolaris’s arm, to look straight into swirling, faceted, rainbow eyes.

Unadulterated happiness flooded his mind. Bliss and belonging and  _ love. _

_ “Surugath.” _ She was here, she was here and she loved him and she’d  _ never leave him. _ Junpei tilted towards her, still murmuring her name. She pressed her forehead against his, crooning, and all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and never let go, but Nolaris needed  _ help— _

_ I can help!  _ Surugath lifted her beautiful, perfect, green head from Junpei’s, chirping.  _ Orpith’s looking for him! I can help! _ Surugath mantled her wings, shrieking, and another green hatchling shrieked back in relief, but couldn’t run towards them, hind legs still caught in her shell.  _ We go to Orpith? Then we get food? _

Junpei let go of Nolaris’s arm to scoop him up— he was only thirteen, still so small —and half ran, half stumbled towards the eggshells, Surugath loping beside him, using her mantled wings for balance. Orpith’s shrieks turned into soothed crooning the instant Nolaris reached out to stroke her snout.

_ We helped! _ Surugath’s warm, happy voice in his head now filled with pride.  _ We helped! We helped! Food now! _

The blueriders finally strode over, numbweed and bandages in hand. Junpei stepped back, out of their way, reaching instinctively to rest his bloody hands on Surugath’s shoulder for comfort.

“Yes, love, food now.” The hatching-hunger in his gut was worse than the pangs he’d felt that summer when Jora scoured the kitchen. “Can I carry you?” Everyone said you needed to give baby dragons their dignity, but he didn’t want to stop touching Surugath, could feel her need to be close to him too, and he knew he  _ was _ strong enough to carry her.

_ Yes! Up now! Yes! _

Junpei laughed, a little hysterical, a little wet from tears he hadn’t noticed, and hoisted Surugath up off the sands. She trilled in delight and rested her head on his shoulder. She was warm, and heavy, and  _ his. _


	10. Act Two, Weyrlings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2494, Autumn, Winter  
> AAT 2495, Winter

“We’re gonna be great,” Chojohrnen told Namith, one hand under her elbow to help her over the clump of autumnal groundcover tripping her up. There was a perfectly decent dirt footpath from the Hatching Ground to the barracks, and Namith had decided to completely ignore it. She chittered angrily at the plants, fiercer than any vengeance ballad refrain Chojohrnen’s gitar could sing out. His heart swelled with pride for her. “You and me, Namith and Chojohrnen.”

It should scare him how quickly and completely he loved Namith, how instantly dedicated to her happiness he was, but it _didn’t_ scare him, and it _should,_ and the fact that it didn’t curled up in the back of his mind to fret over later. “Well, it’ll be shorter, I’m supposed to contract my name now…”

 _Good!_ Namith said. She shook herself all over, wings flapping hilariously against her sides, and lunged forward again, scent of bloody herdbeast chunks guiding them both towards the barracks. _Too long! Like this WALK!_ Chojohrnen laughed at her, and stepped down hard on another groundcover clump before it could trip her. Unfortunately, her front foot went right into a hole only a half-dragonlength later, sending her sprawling, shrieking. _Help! Ch_ — _Ch_ — _Ch’JOH!_

“Guess that’s that, huh?” Ch’joh said, gladly shedding his spare syllables as he hauled her up again. Her hatching-hunger shook his limbs. “I could carry you,” he offered. He had to turn around to help her up, and saw the other new weyrlings trailing along the Bowl behind them. Most stumbled along in awkward pairs, but one tall figure strode sure-footed, a crooning green hatchling in his arms. “See? Like Junpei’s carrying—”

 _No! Do it myself!_ Namith said. Ch’joh untangled her left wing-tip from the twisting grasses it had landed in by feel, staring past her. For the briefest, shocked second, he wondered if Junpei carried someone else’s hatchling, taking her to be fed while her new rider was stitched up, one of the injured candidates. That would be just like him. But his face, as he drew nearer, bore the same besotted, sappy look Ch’joh’s did.

Freed from the inconsiderate plantlife, Namith shook herself again, and promptly headbutted Ch’joh’s legs. He kept one hand on her wing, watching the ground for hazards, spotting them faster now he had more thoughts than _love love love_ on his mind.

“Almost there, Namith,” Ch’joh said aloud, thinking _Junpei Impressed green, he’s GREEN, that means—_ “You’re doing great, you were right, you’re doing it yourself.” _But does it really mean that or was everyone wrong about—_ “Almost there!”

Lower Cavern workers had filled every bucket halfway with meat during the Hatching, and now whacked at the remaining carcasses nearby, rushing to fill them the rest of the way. Namith lunged towards the hatchet-wielding women, a rush of relief, delight, and hunger flooding into Ch’joh’s brain from hers at the sight of the carcasses. He firmly turned her towards the nearest bucket instead, half-dragging, half-shoving, until he got her nose in it. She forgot the carcasses even existed and inhaled several small pieces just fine.

Then a piece stuck. Ch’joh pulled her upright at the mental blast of alarm, and got his arm down her throat before she even thought _help!_ at him. He grimaced at the horrible, disorienting sensation of raw meat sliding up his throat and out to his front teeth at the same time he gripped it in his hand. He dropped the piece back in the bucket and shoved a smaller one into Namith’s mouth as she, forgetting her three seconds of terror, tried to shove her snout into the bucket again. _“Chew_ this time. Slow down.”

_Hungry! Hungry NOW!_

“Then let me help,” Ch’joh said firmly. He hiked up the skirt of the woolen candidate robe to reach the belt-knife he’d strapped to his leg. “See? This is sharper than your teeth.” Namith chirped happily, more reassured by his confidence than the words, and let him cut the pieces smaller for her.

Someone poured more meat past Ch’joh’s shoulder when his knuckles scraped the bottom of the bucket. He might have thrown a “Thanks!” back over his shoulder, but he probably didn’t, swiftly tossing the smallest pieces he could to Namith while cutting the rest down to size. The shaking hunger dwindled, replaced by shaking _exhaustion,_ with each piece.

Finally, finally, _finally,_ Namith sighed sleepily.

“Lead them into the barracks, lads,” C’gan called out. Ch’joh looked up, dazed; the other new weyrlings did the same, blinking at each other, remembering they and their dragons were not the only living things in the world. “Come on now, they’ll sleep it off soon enough. Pallets for them, the feast for you.”

“Can’t we stay with them?” a quiet voice murmured. Ch’joh reached over without looking to grasp Junpei’s shoulder. Junpei put his hand over Ch’joh’s for a moment, and then they both let go to urge their hatchlings into the barracks.

Weyrlings were allotted more space than candidates; every bunk was a single, with sleeping pallets for the dragons built into the bases. Empty, bare rows that Ch’joh barely glanced at spread out through the huge chamber. The dozen bunks right by the entrance all had mattresses and heavy, warm curtains on them. The new riders settled their hatchlings down to sleep at those.

Namith, unable to keep her eyes open but determined, rolled off her own pallet and curled up around Junpei’s hatchling, chin resting on the other green’s wing.

 _Surugath’s warm,_ Namith informed Ch’joh, and her mental presence slipped from a buzz into a quiet purr.

 _“You’re_ going to be trouble,” Ch’joh told his sleeping hatchling. “Surugath doesn’t mind?” he asked Junpei.

Junpei gazed at the baby dragons with a soft, content smile Ch’joh hadn’t seen since Turn’s End, covered in small children listening raptly to winter-fire stories. That was fine, then.

“Wash up at the water trough, come on now,” C’gan cajoled everyone. The human weyrlings slipped away from their dragon counterparts reluctantly, but at the Weyrlingmaster’s insistence soon walked back across the Bowl in their bloody robes, hands and arms the only clean parts of them.

Most of the candidates had been too young for regular chore rotations; Ch’joh recognized all the new riders by sight, but only half of them by name. Shells, they were so _tiny._

They threw name contractions at each other as they walked, anxious to pick for themselves before a well-meaning adult could try, or old nicknames could overtake them. It sounded like most of them hadn’t picked a name out, or at least never shared it before. Afraid of jinxing themselves. With a jolt, Ch’joh realized Earl wasn’t in the group. He wouldn't have to find a way to rearrange his too-short name after all.

“I’m going to be Om'riel,” Omoriel decided. He’d Impressed a green hatchling, just like Ch’joh and Junpei. “I don’t want a wingleader yelling _O’mo!_ and spoiling it. Reeth says she likes both.”

“M’rik might be confusing, then,” Lomerik said. Bluerider now, Ch’joh was pretty sure. “L’rik? No I don’t like that…”

“L’mer?” one of the youngest suggested, and Lomerik brightened right up.

“Yes! L’mer. Thanks!”

 _“We’re_ going to be K’tis and N’ris,” Konatis declared, arm draped over his brother, whose own arm was in a sling. Were they both greenriders? Or was one of them blue? Shells, Ch’joh really _had_ been enchanted by Namith.

Junpei’s strides slowed the nearer they drew to the Lower Caverns. Ch’joh slowed too, stepping up to his friend’s side just in time to see him flinch at the cheer greeting the first weyrling through the entrance.

“Hey,” Ch’joh said softly, touching Junpei’s elbow. “We can make a break for it. Screw tradition. Namith and Surugath won’t mind more nap buddies.” Junpei smiled, squeezed his hand gratefully— and then both their traitorous stomachs rumbled. “I should have hidden food in the barracks,” Ch’joh grumbled, following Junpei into the dining cavern.

The cheer for the twins kept on rolling to greet them too before falling back apart into loud conversations. D’nis shoved past his wingmates to scoop Ch’joh off his feet. “You did it!” Ch’joh laughed as his boyfriend spun him around. “Ah, I knew it! She’s beautiful! What’s her name?”

“Namith!” His sappy smile came back full force. Namith was _amazing._ The instant his feet touched the floor again, other riders shook his hand, patted his back, asked after his and his hatchlings’ names. In seconds he was yards away from Junpei, lost in a crowd of well-wishers, most of them (fellow!) greenriders, half of _them_ juggling serving trays and empty dishes as they gave the gals a break to enjoy the feast too.

UnImpressed candidates and their sisters mobbed the youngest weyrlings, shrieking the same questions. They spread through the cavern, eager to talk with their friends, their families. Ch’joh almost sat down right in the first empty seat he stumbled across, too tired to seek friends, but caught himself when he spotted Junpei, stone faced, trying to make his way to Esme’s table halfway across the dining cavern. Even at this distance it was easy to tell a bubble of silence followed him, riders and Lower Cavern workers glancing slyly between him and the head table as he walked by, leaning in to whisper after.

Weyrleader R’gul presided over the head table solemnly, carving roast wherry for his seatmates, conversing quietly with his wingseconds, carefully never looking in Junpei’s direction. Next to him, Weyrwoman Jora ate with the same single-minded determination of holders Ch’joh had helped smuggle out of High Reaches and Crom. He winced. He did _not_ want to think about that today.

The whispers were loud conversations by the time Ch’joh shoved past, absently thanking people for their congratulations.

“Should have known Reiko’s get would be contrary.”

“Only two browns and no bronzes at all, and here I thought the small clutch size was due to Nemorth’s laziness, Hath’s always flown so well, but if his own son—”

“He always seemed like such a stable lad. Teach me to bet on hatchings!”

“That poor green’s wasted on him. Can’t imagine she’ll get many suitors when their riders would have to catch _that—”_

Ch’joh hooked his ankle around the speaker’s stool as he passed, yanking sharply. A clatter, a yelp, a thud, and Ch’joh grinned down viciously at the old bluerider lying on the floor. “It’s so nice,” Ch’joh said, ignoring the man’s blustering seatmates. “To hear that whole _the dragon decides the rider complies_ nonsense has limits. After all, we’d both hate for you to catch _this.”_ He twisted his grin lopsided, the way Trader Geroln said made his scar look scarier than usual.

Unfortunately, if he stopped to scare everyone saying rude things, he’d miss the whole feast before catching up to Junpei, so Ch’joh had to settle for creative use of his elbows as he passed more blues and browns grousing that the Weyrleader’s son wasn’t pretty or soft or obliging enough for a greenrider. Ch’joh snorted, thinking of the greens he knew. L’deni? D’rees? _Obliging?_

Few of the dragonriders knew Junpei well enough to be more than simply surprised by Surugath’s color. The women of the Lower Cavern were another matter. They were flat out _shocked,_ asking each other what they could have missed. He was so reliable, they told each other. You could count on him for anything. Never made trouble, never fussed, not like that Omoriel (Reeth’s green hide didn’t surprise them, though he saw women patting Tinall’s shoulder consolingly, much to her confusion).

“He always did work best in groups. Maybe the other weyrbrats kept him on task.”

“No, he kept _us_ on task,” Ch’joh interjected. He barely recognized the woman now glaring at him.

Only a table away from Junpei (finally sitting next to Esme), half a wing burst into snickers, and wingleader C'rob drunkenly said, “Ah, don’t you laugh at me G’regok, you thought R’gul was the best choice too! Clutchmates with F’lon, but more cautious. Proper, traditional, firm. Thought his son would follow in his footsteps like F’lon’s two did, didn’t we? Another legacy. We should have known.” C’rob shook his silvered head. “Should have known when the clutch was laid! So small, never that small before. Should have _known_ R’gul wasn’t man enough to raise a proper son—”

Gullers slammed a serving tray down on C’rob’s fingers.

“Sorry, wingleader, I thought you saw me,” she said flatly, gathering the empty serving dishes as he cussed, the rest of the table nervously silent. “I should have known from Spakinth’s poor showing in the mating flight that you don’t have proper reflexes anymore.”

“Go easy on the man, Gullers,” F’lar said from behind Ch’joh. He jumped, and the young wingleader dropped a hand on his shoulder. “His eyesight isn’t what it used to be either.” With that, F’lar neatly stepped over to the next table where Junpei had been trying _so hard_ to pretend he hadn’t heard all of that, dragging Ch’joh along too.

“Chojohrnen, first Impression of the clutch, well done.” F’lar thumped his hand against Ch’joh’s shoulder twice, then leaned across the table, extending one hand, forcing Junpei to half-rise and shake it. “Nicely done helping that youngster today, Junpei. You and…?”

“Surugath,” Junpei said, unmistakable pride in his voice, despite his neutral expression. “And I’m J’pei.”

“Surugath,” F’lar repeated firmly. “Are going to be an asset to this Weyr. Mnementh and I wish you both luck in your training, J’pei.”

“Thank you, wingleader.”

~

_Food?_

J’pei rolled off his bunk. Surugath did not get out of the way, which meant his leg ended up over her shoulder and his foot somewhere down her spine. She dropped her head heavily onto his stomach and looked down his torso pleadingly with big, faceted, rapidly-swirling eyes.

_Now?_

“Of course, love,” J’pei said, though detangling himself (Surugath kept circling around to see what was happening and tripping him again on accident) took long enough that _now_ was only _soon._ Thankfully for her stomach and his empathy, not too _long_ of a soon.

They found Ch’joh, Namith, and a few other weyrlings outside with the meat buckets, illuminated by glowbaskets hanging from the sloped roof of the barracks, making up for the weak evening sun.

“Second meal’s as free as the first,” Ch’joh said, grinning over Namith at them. All the human weyrlings had washed up, changed, and carted their belongings to the barracks after the feast, then fallen into their new bunks to sleep the rest of the day. “C’gan says we have to chop it up ourselves starting tomorrow.”

“Right,” J’pei said, unhooking the lid of the nearest bucket for Surugath. She pulled the first piece out herself, but let J’pei hand her each piece after that.

“See?” Ch’joh said, nudging Namith’s jaw to make her look at them. “If you let me do that, you wouldn’t keep bonking your nose on the edge.” Namith chuffed, licked Ch’joh’s arm, and stuck her snout right back down into her bucket. Ch’joh sighed, stuck his arm down past her, and pulled out a large piece to cut down to a better size before dropping it in again.

 _You’re doing so well,_ J’pei thought at Surugath. Or at least, he hoped it was at her. Most riders talked aloud to their dragons, but that might have been simply to put everyone around them at ease. He’d certainly heard them complain occasionally of their dragons hearing things they hadn’t intended to share.

Pride and pleasure seeped back into J’pei’s mind faster than the hunger leached out. He paused for a moment, holding a piece of meat over the bucket. Surugath tilted her head to the side, looking at him, and he thought his idea at her. She wriggled her shoulders, _curiosity_ seeping into him now, and lifted her chin. J’pei tossed the meat into the air. Surugath leaned back, caught it, and chewed with bright pride. _Did it! Did it!_

“Yes you did,” J’pei said, just as proud as she was, and tossed the next few as well. When she missed the fifth piece (and then gobbled it off the grass) J’pei went back to handing them directly to her. Only a few pieces after that, she started yawning and blinking drowsily, just like she had that morning. “Bedtime.”

~ 

It turned out that human weyrlings didn’t have to catch and kill meals for their dragon counterparts after all, the Lower Caverns workers handling that part. They _did_ have to butcher the carcasses themselves, which reminded Ch’joh of home in ways he hadn’t thought of for Turns. Except now instead of anyone yelling at him to _do it right,_ there was Namith creeling hungrily until he tossed her the first piece, and then blasting his mind with _This is delicious! This is the best! You’re so good at this!_ no matter how haphazardly cut. It was strange to have shoulders sore from butchering, hands wet with blood, and be filled with a glow of adoring love.

Namith _loved_ Ch’joh. Completely, utterly, unconditionally. Maybe that was why it didn’t scare him how much he loved her back. Even when she was dragging him out of bed by his ankle in the morning, or grumbling that she didn’t _want_ to nap, or whining that lunch was tougher to chew than breakfast had been.

“I’d slaughter every herdbeast on the Northern Continent,” Ch’joh remarked one morning, gorey up to his elbows. “And rip them up barehanded, just to hear Namith humming.” She chirped at the sound of her name and headbutted his legs. His heart did a stupid melty thing inside his chest.

“Mm,” J’pei agreed. If the way his face softened as Surugath trilled was any indication, his heart was doing a stupid melty thing too.

“And lose centuries of sleep!” N’ris added. He fed Orpith one-handed, his other arm still in a sling, while K’tis cut up the meat for both their greens. K’tis’s Everth never strayed too far from Orpith, who seemed afraid of being left behind after her stressful hatching.

“And squeeze an entire peninsula’s worth of oilseed pods,” L’mer said. He’d helped in the distillery more than the other fosterlings, when he was still Lomerik, and knew how much work went into the hide-oils.

“And— and take too many baths,” little N’tsu said firmly. His brown hatchling managed to knock him into the lake every single time they washed up. Fortunately, C’gan made sure the barracks were always hot, building a fire going in the main hearth to supplement the geothermal heat, whenever the weyrlings returned from that particular chore.

Their first few sevendays together passed in a blur. Grown dragons hunted their own meals, usually not more than once or twice a sevenday. Hatchlings ate multiple meals a day. They couldn’t fly off into the forest to pass waste, making midden duty a _much_ busier job than usual. They had to be bathed in the lake and oiled almost as much as they needed to be fed, to stop their hides from cracking under the rapid growth.

Then there were all the human adjustments to make, like trekking back across the Bowl to eat in the dining cavern but sleeping in the barracks. Ch’joh and the other former fosterlings handled that better than the weyrbred kids, already having made at _least_ one big move in their lives. Even J’pei accidentally walked towards their old dorms after dinner a few times. When Ch’joh tried to tease him about it later Surugath shrieked and mantled her wings at him, which promptly made Namith do the same back before getting distracted by the shadow of a passing cloud.

Everyone, at least, had some trouble learning each other’s newly contracted names, and all of their dragons’. Ch’joh put an extra effort into that, determined to make up for learning so few names before. His old dormmates were easy: Om’riel had green Reeth and L’mer had blue Riheth, to the delight of their friends who had Impressed at the previous clutch.

Earl, unImpressed at nearly seventeen and confident his chances were shot, was walking around the Lower Caverns with blatant relief dripping off him. “Maybe everyone’ll stop telling me to shape up,” he told Ch’joh once, pouring hot oats into his bowl from across the breakfast serving line. “Speculating what I could get. It’s done, gone, and they can piss off.”

Shy, craftbred fosterling Q’resh had Impressed blue, equally shy Mianath. He’d come to the Weyr after deciding he didn’t want to follow his father’s footsteps as a scribe, or his mother’s as an illuminator. He was thirteen Turns old, the same as the twins, and frequently hid behind them when any adults talked too loudly, no matter their tone. J’pei mentioned he’d met Q’resh’s parents at a Gather, once; they didn’t like loud noises either, and were very proud that their son had dragonsense.

The rest of the human weyrlings were all young enough for afternoon lessons, going right back to C’gan’s tutelage after lunch thanks to his dual position as Weyrlingmaster and Weyrsinger, though Sanra had stepped up in the latter duties since the Hatching. Twelve-Turn-old R’shi of brown Husath was the oldest, followed by eleven-Turn-old N’tsu of brown Suzukith. Both of them weyrbred, their mothers strutting around the Lower Caverns, bursting with pride, checking in on them at meals. The youngest three were all ten-Turn-old fosters, P’gyo of green Onth, T’kash of blue Nodath, and N’reen of blue Kirkbeth.

The morning lessons with C’gan were a pain in the ass. He was just as relentless a taskmaster as Headwoman Manora. A little easier to influence than her, though, not that it did much good when they were all exhausted. Along with all the practical dragoncare tasks they had to do, C’gan used every minute their hatchlings napped (and as they spent more time awake, the minutes they didn’t need something _immediately)_ to drill dragonrider teaching ballads into everyone’s heads, _and_ insisted the older weyrlings use their afternoons to keep up the memorization.

Ch’joh could’ve used some of those afternoons to himself, dang it. D’nis had always been busy with his wing’s patrol duties and Spring Games training, stealing moments of free time to spend with Chojohrnen. Now that Ch’joh was, well, _Ch’joh_ and not Chojohrnen anymore, busy caring for Namith and learning to be a rider, they barely had _any_ time for each other. Sure, they couldn’t get up to anything like they used to in the back tunnels and store rooms, not with Namith so young, but it would be _nice_ to steal a quick kiss or an hour to chat about their days.

 _And it’d be_ really _nice to ask an older rider I can trust if I’m going to stay this short tempered forever!_ Ch’joh thought, after nearly punching C’gan during a morning lesson. Ch’joh _knew_ he had a temper, knew he always felt things too much, but in Namith’s waking hours their link intensified everything. Mostly it was good. When she finished a meal, nothing had ever felt so satisfying. When he oiled her hide or scratched around her head-knobs, nothing had felt so blissful. When they curled up to sleep in barracks, Namith on her pallet and Ch’joh on his bunk, hand dangling over to touch her wing, nothing had ever made him feel so _content._

But when he was scared or angry? Yikes.

 _Stupid!_ Namith yelled, chittering up at C’gan’s ancient blue Tagath, whose own eyes swirled in amusement. _Stupid dumb don’t learn mean stupid!_

“It’s not that hard of a song,” C’gan said dryly, hands on his hips, as though Ch’joh hadn’t just turned an angry swing at him into a spin to face a different direction, knuckles barely missing the Weyrlingmaster’s jaw. “It’s not even long! It’s _barely_ a _ditty_ , and you _need to know it.”_

“I don’t care how hard it is!” Ch’joh yelled. Namith chittered louder. Surugath chittered too, rearing up on her hind legs. J’pei was stony, expressionless, but he’d tucked his arms behind himself the way he did when clenching his fists. “Don’t fucking call me lazy for not memorizing it in a _day!”_ A day with too little sleep and too many other tasks to do.

“Good reflexes though, redirecting like that,” C’gan said. Dammit, Ch’joh ought to be able to tell if he was being sarcastic or serious, and he _couldn’t,_ brain buzzing too loudly, and it just made him more mad that he couldn’t tell. “Most fosterlings take longer to get the hang of _‘dragonriders don’t fight’_ than you have.”

P’gyo hunched his shoulders and shuffled his feet; he’d bitten one of the brown weyrlings the other day, when one of their dragons stepped on Onth’s tail.

“We’re not _fosterlings_ anymore,” Ch’joh snapped.

“No, you’re dragonriders, and you ought to be able to memorize a simple little song!”

J’pei spoke up, voice neutral but pitched loud enough to carry over the growing agitation from Namith, Surugath, and now Onth. “I’ll help everyone practice this afternoon.”

“Oh, well,” C’gan said. “Fine. We’ll start the next one today, then, and I expect you all to have both of them down tomorrow.”

~

Headwoman Manora gave the unImpressed teens and young women from the Lower Caverns strict orders “not to bother” the weyrlings while they bonded. Which meant they all snuck out between chores or at night to come visit. Most of them had been too young to slip away from the women in charge of littler kids right after the _last_ Hatching. Esme and Gullers showed up at the same time but from different chores, and laughed when they saw each other.

“You could’ve _told_ us,” Esme teased J’pei, sitting next to him on his bunk while Gullers methodically examined Surugath. The green hatchling was so soundly asleep she didn’t so much as twitch when Gullers carefully lifted her wings to look at the webbing. “I’d’ve guessed blue for you, if I’d known. You absolutely _destroyed_ all the betting pools, you know.”

J’pei sighed. If _only_ he’d been busy enough with Surugath to miss the gossip. He didn’t know _what_ he was, but everyone else in the Weyr had decided they did. Were all his old fantasies of other candidates staying at Benden because they liked him so much...romantic? He’d never had those thoughts about girls, but they hardly ever left, he hadn’t needed to hope for that. If everyone was right about what Surugath’s color meant, they _must_ have been romantic. But he never...he hadn’t...it wasn’t like the fantasies were ever...none of the things he’d been fascinated by in F’lar and then Chojohrnen made it into those old daydreams.

Sure, he assumed he’d have sex one day. Everyone else did. They all seemed really happy about it, too. He’d fall in love, like his grandparents did. Like Gullers had with Rishall. Sometime...sometime in the future. He’d fall in love and things would make sense finally.

The future looked a lot different now.

“Such a wonder he never told you,” Ch’joh said dryly. He was the only other weyrling in earshot, sprawled across his own bunk, idly stroking Namith’s sleeping form.

“I’d’ve been _discreet,”_ Esme huffed. “I don’t make bets on my siblings, anyway.” She elbowed J’pei. “So are you like Gullers, then, or a full invert like Rishall?”

“That term is _archaic,”_ Gullers said, flat on her back, holding one of Surugath’s wings up to examine her elbow-joint. “No one calls queer people ‘inverts’ outside of euphemistic _ballads.”_

“Wait a second, Gullers _isn’t_ a full invert?” Ch’joh asked.

“I’m bi,” Gullers said.

“She’s bi,” Esme said, at the same moment. “She _almost_ became weyrmates with S’ten, too. A couple Turns before you showed up.” Esme elbowed J’pei again, as Ch’joh pulled an appalled face at the thought of Gullers with S’ten of all people. “So. Girls _and_ boys, or just boys?”

 _Just boys,_ J’pei thought, but was it really, if it had only ever been two? Only two the way Esme meant it. Gullers had only stepped out with two people in her life, but she’d been _interested_ in more. J’pei hadn’t.

Surugath whistled in her sleep and rolled over, tugging her wing gently out of Gullers’ grasp. J’pei stared down at her. She was the loveliest, most perfect shade of green in the world, and that meant _everyone in the entire Weyr_ already knew he wasn’t straight, whatever he was.

What difference would saying it out loud make?

His chest still got tight when he opened his mouth to answer. He pressed his lips together again. What did it _matter?_ He had Surugath, _that’s_ what was important. Esme’s elbow started to come up a third time, so J’pei slid off his bunk to press against his dragon’s side.

“I guess it’s kind of obvious, huh?” Esme said into the silence. “I mean, none of the other girls said you ever made time with them, and nobody noticed you sneaking off holding hands. We all thought you were just a stuffed shirt, though, too concerned with responsibility and shit to take the time for some nice make-outs.”

“He doesn’t _have_ to like girls _or_ boys,” Ch’joh said, sharp. “K’tis doesn’t like anyone like that.”

“K’tis is thirteen, he’s a _kid,”_ Esme said dismissively.

J’pei could feel the words, _I don’t know what I am,_ sitting in the pit of his stomach. They weren’t coming out any time soon. Gullers tactfully changed the topic, asking about Surugath and Namith’s growth rates, and they managed to talk about nothing but dragons by the time Gullers and Esme had to sneak back to the chores they’d abandoned.

~

A few sevendays after Turn’s End the draconic weyrlings stopped falling asleep after every meal. The human weyrlings had only made it to half the feast, nothing else, too exhausted for dancing, too absent minded to take in winter-fire tales. They even only stumbled out of the barracks for the midnight bugling instead of trekking across the Bowl. J’pei missed seeing everyone. Gossip from the holiday trickled out to them slowly; Gullers and Rishall still refused to dance with anyone but each other, one of the fosterlings told a ghost story so hair-raising even the wingleaders got scared, and Earl snuck wine again, vomiting on wingsecond A’jellan when he got pushy with Felena, before her blue weyrmate could intervene.

“At least he didn’t hit anyone this time,” J’pei said, when he heard. He wouldn’t have minded Earl hitting A’jellan, but weaponized vomit sounded bad enough to be satisfying.

On a cold afternoon when C’gan forgot to assign the weyrlings any passages of dragonrider teaching ballads to memorize, J’pei walked Surugath to the herb garden to meet Anjali, who’d been too conscientious to sneak over.

“Hello, dear,” Anjali said, kneeling down in the light snow, taking a break from gathering winter-hardy stalks. One of the felines that hunted pests in the herb beds trotted over curiously. Surugath rested her head on Anjali’s lap. “It’s nice to meet you. Are you taking care of my friend?” Surugath trilled. Anjali scratched gently at the base of one head-knob. Surugath trilled again, settling her head more firmly on her lap. “Aren’t you a sweetheart.”

“A sweetheart who stole her clutchmate’s breakfast this morning,” J’pei said dryly. Anjali giggled. Namith had clamped down on Surugath’s tail in revenge and refused to let go until bathtime.

A few sevendays ago, Surugath would have fallen asleep while enjoying the scratching. Now she leaned into it for just a few minutes, before turning around and sniffing curiously at the feline. It promptly dashed off towards the chicken-weyr with offended dignity. Surugath followed it, chirping. She was much more coordinated than before, limbs closer to adult proportions, even if her head was still hatchling-big, but the feline gained distance quickly as Surugath tripped over uneven ground, squacking indignantly.

“Keep trying, love,” J’pei said. He had a goofy grin on his face and didn’t care.

“Namith managed to wriggle _under_ a napping feline yesterday,” Anjali said, shaking her, smiling. “I think it must have been humoring her.” She picked her basket of stalks back up and stretched. “I’m taking these to Luceel’s grandmother for braiding. Would you like to come? Some of her friends have been asking after you.”

“They have?” J’pei asked, surprised.

“Of course, they like you,” Anjali said easily.

J’pei picked up the second basket and looped his free arm through Anjali’s, and called out to Surugath. “Don’t eat any of the chickens, please!”

 _I just want to_ catch _them,_ Surugath said plaintively. J’pei got a mental flash of running, feathery shapes just past a fence, which a differently-shaped furry creature sat on. J’pei told her to look for pests in the grass, instead, which was a novel enough idea to distract her completely from chickens and feline alike.

The Weyrleader’s own wing strode out of the main entrance to the Lower Caverns, off to go on patrol, just as Anjali and J’pei reached it. They stepped out of the way, waiting for all the riders walking abreast to pass.

“Good afternoon!” Anjali called out cheerfully.

“Safe skies,” J’pei added.

“Good afternoon,” R’gul said back, polite and curt. “Thank you.” His eyes stayed fixed on Hath waiting further out in the Bowl. Next to him, his wingsecond S’ten smiled at Anjali, noticed her arm linked through J’pei’s, and nearly burst out laughing, quickly covering his mouth to avoid his wingleader’s attention.

“I’m sorry about S’ten,” Anjali said quietly, once they were inside. “He’s being such an ass.”

“His attitude isn’t your fault,” J’pei said firmly.

“I don’t think he’d be acting like this if he hadn’t been so jealous earlier,” Anjali said. “He thought you were interested in me. I always told him not to fret.”

“What if I _was_ interested?” J’pei asked, curious.

Anjali patted his arm. “I can tell when a boy’s interested in me, J’pei. You weren’t anymore than Ch’joh was.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about your father, too.”

“...thank you,” J’pei said. That brief exchange was the most R’gul had said to him since the Hatching.

In the retired weyrfolk's cavern, the three greenrider Aunties waved J’pei over to them as he carefully placed the basket of long-stemmed plants on the table by Lulellen’s chair. He walked over while Anjali chatted amiably with the older woman. At the back of his mind, Surugath crowed with pride at catching a large bug. Phantom crunches against his teeth made him grimace and swallow hard before saying hello to the Aunties.

“That’ll fade, dear,” Q'cheten said, noticing.

 _But I don’t want it to,_ J’pei thought. Not the sharing, at least. Maybe how much it showed to other people.

“Or at least,” Z’lin said. “You’ll get better at tuning it out when you _need_ to.”

“And you’re already itching to get back to her,” X’toq observed. “We’ll make this quick. We need to talk to you and all the other new greens. Come back tomorrow after dinner, if everyone’s babies are sleeping through the night.”

“It’s not more teaching ballads, is it?” J’pei asked, too tired to stop himself. Shells, he sounded like Ch’joh.

“Maybe,” Q'cheten said, grinning gummily.

~

The older dragons were curious about the hatchlings, not having seen any in so many Turns. Their riders made time to swing by between patrols and drills, laughingly joining in with teaching ballads and giving advice. C’gan groused about the distraction every time, before prodding the other riders into sharing their own training anecdotes. Ch’joh learned he was _far_ from the only new rider to lose control of his temper, and that it would tone back down. Unfortunately, the fact it was so strong now meant he was likely to get this way again whenever Namith went into heat.

Green and blue dragons in particular seemed to find the hatchlings fascinating; small and oddly proportioned, noisy and ungainly. N’bast’s Neesuth killed a herdbeast and ripped it open for baby Reeth to eat the guts one day, when Om’riel was too slow at getting her dinner cut up. C’gan chewed both riders out along with the grown dragon for that, saying it was Om'riel’s job to provide for his hatchling. That didn’t stop Neesuth from doing it again a sevenday later.

The hatchlings were curious about the older dragons right back, and now they were staying awake long enough after meals to explore that curiosity. Whenever one of the older dragons crouched down on the snow-covered grass, instead of perching on a weyr ledge, weyrlings climbed all over them, chirping for their riders to come see how high they were.

 _Ch’joh, Ch’joh, I found the sun!_ Namith called from the junction between Aldamth’s head and neck. The blue dragon held perfectly still, though keeping his head raised like that couldn’t be comfortable. _It was hiding but I found it!_ The sun had come out from behind a cloud right when Namith had begun her climb from Aldamth’s shoulders up his neck.

“You did!” Ch’joh exclaimed, shielding his eyes to watch her, giggling. C’gan had forgotten to assign the weyrlings a ballad passage to memorize today, and they were all goofing off a little. J’pei had gone to introduce Surugath to Anjali. “What’re you gonna do with it?”

 _Share the warm!_ Namith trilled loudly, getting her clutchmate’s attention. Soon all of them were sprawled in the patch of slushy grass illuminated by the sunbeam, or climbing up Aldamth too.

“She likes being tall?” D’nis asked, his arm around Ch’joh’s waist.

“No, she’s after the warmth,” Ch’joh said. D’nis couldn’t hear Namith any more than Ch’joh could hear Aldamth, which was normal. Dragons had to make an effort to talk to humans other than their own riders. It made for a lot of short, ridiculous arguments in the barracks, as everyone got used to having a voice in their head and forgot no one else could hear it too.

_I can see everything!_

“And she likes the view,” Ch’joh added.

“I like this view,” D’nis murmured, looking at him with a smile.

Ch’joh made an embarrassing noise that was several words smushed together as his brain tried to respond to that compliment. His brain which was simultaneously happy and content with his feet on the ground, and also delighted and proud several yards in the air. Okay, forget words. Ch’joh kissed D’nis, wrapping his arms around him. There. Much warmer than the wintery sunlight.

“Um!” Om’riel said loudly, who knew how long later. “C’gan’s coming back!”

Ch’joh broke the kiss with a sigh.

“I think that’s my cue to get ready for the northwestern coastal patrol,” D’nis said. Namith grumbled as Aldamth slowly lowered his head to the ground.

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said. He gave D’nis a much quicker kiss farewell, and went to catch Namith before she could decide Aldamth was returning her to the ground too slowly and jumped.

~

After Junpei said goodbye to the Aunties, Surugath insisted on a real snack before napping. Bugs were fun, not filling. By the time J’pei got her settled down next to his bunk in the barracks, and washed her snack’s gore off his arms, it was time for all the weyrlings to head _back_ to the Lower Caverns for dinner. C’gan, already used to J’pei taking charge of the youngest ones, spent the walk over lecturing Ch’joh on his ‘improper behavior’ with D’nis that afternoon.

“We didn’t _do_ anything!” Ch’joh snapped, arms crossed sulkily.

“Because Om'riel interrupted you!” C’gan said, shaking a finger at Ch’joh, a bit awkwardly as they were walking abreast across the Bowl. Om'riel winced, but didn’t say anything. “No sexual activity before your dragon matures _means_ no sexual activity! Whatsoever!”

“It was just a _kiss!”_ Ch’joh said. “A _quick_ one!”

“It wasn’t appropriate,” C’gan said firmly. “You can wait on all that until Namith rises, as is _proper.”_

 _“Namith_ thinks I ought to knock D’nis over so he can’t go on patrol,” Ch’joh said, a grin breaking up his sulky expression. “And sit on him by the lake so we can sunbathe.” The other weyrlings giggled; Namith climbed more dragons for fun than any other weyrling, and kept trying to take naps on their backs because they were “closer to the sun, and _warm.”_

The bickering made a decent enough distraction that J’pei only hesitated for a few seconds at the entrance to the dining cavern this time. C’gan peeled off to dine with his old wingmates, the littlest weyrlings made for the tables of other children, and the teens awkwardly wove through the tables and chairs to find their friends and siblings. If he concentrated very hard on looking for a seat, he wouldn’t hear _too_ many of the murmurs, or catch too many of the speculative looks.

 _Junpei was going to Impress a brown dragon,_ everyone had always agreed. _Maybe even a bronze, if there was one._ Steady. Reliable. Hard-working. And here J’pei was, bonded for life with a curious, flighty, fidgety green. The consensus, flitting up in snatches of conversation and half-heard asides, was that no one had ever really gotten to know him. That they’d been _wrong_ about his temperament. That clearly, he must have been quiet because he wasn’t paying attention. Must have only finished his chores because others kept him on track. Must have been _luck_ that kept his younger charges safe when they left the Weyr. After all, you couldn’t expect a _green_ to have a sense of responsibility.

The worst part was, they were _almost_ right. Junpei, before adolescence, _had_ kept quiet from confusion, been easily distracted, difficult to keep on task. None of the adults noticed, because Esme decided it would be a fun game to whisper the answers during lessons, elbow him during chores, and sing the teaching ballads whenever he had trouble focusing on something.

It was _infuriating_ to overhear people talking now as though his Turns of hard work for the Weyr were a _fluke._ In the dining cavern he just did what he always had when people were rude about his mother; pretend not to hear, and keep his face neutral. But when it was other riders watching the weyrling training? Not realizing or caring how far their voices carried? Surugath kept rearing up on her hind legs, wings spread, to screech at them. So far everyone had laughed it off as hatchling mood swings, but how long would that last? How long until they realized J’pei was just as furious as Surugath? He’d _never_ let people know how he felt before!

“Hey.” Ch’joh reached across the table to poke J’pei in the arm, breaking him out of his thoughts. “How’d, you know, introductions go?”

“Good.” J’pei smiled. “Surugath chased a feline instead of trampling all over the herb beds, so we don’t have to save Anjali from the Headwoman’s wrath.”

“Oh good,” Ch’joh said. “I was worried someone would catch you bringing her too close to the kitchens. Is the feline okay?”

“It can climb better than she can.” J’pei grinned. “If you don’t watch out, she’ll teach Namith to eat bugs.”

“Hey, gotta learn to catch their own food _sometime,”_ Ch’joh said philosophically. “The Rains know I did.” He smiled thoughtfully. “Huh. Maybe after she graduates to food that’s not all cut up, C’gan’ll let us take the tithing tunnel out to the woods and I can teach her how to take down wild wherries.”

“Loroth used to catch fish,” J’pei said. He’d never visited the sea with his grandfather and his blue dragon, but his mother used to tell him about it.

Om'riel slowly tilted his head to the side, eyes unfocused. Probably talking to Reeth; she was having more trouble than the other young dragons getting to sleep. J’pei counted to ten, and then patted his shoulder. Om'riel jumped.

“Eat,” J’pei said, pointing to the food in front of them. “Reeth’ll get upset if you’re too hungry.”

“Thanks, Jun— J’pei,” Om'riel said.

Someone at a nearby table snorted with laughter. J’pei would have ignored it, but Ch’joh spun around to glare. “Wanna share the _joke,_ A’jellan?”

“Just surprised,” the older brownrider said. Smirks shouldn’t be _audible,_ but A’jellan managed it. J’pei looked up from his dinner to give him a flat, unimpressed look. “We thought _Nemorth_ was your clutch’s mother. Didn’t realize you had such strong maternal instincts, Juney.”

“Paternal instincts,” J’pei corrected mildly, before Ch’joh could even get halfway out of his chair. Ch’joh thumped back down, swallowing his snarl. A’jellan was still trying to smirk, but his rather sensible fear of Ch’joh’s temper was turning it into a nervous grimace. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

“I...what?” A’jellan frowned, confused by the statement, glancing to his wingmates on either side. J’pei kept his face carefully neutral. Across the table from him, back to A’jellan once more, Ch’joh grinned.

“The nickname,” J’pei said. He was too angry, too tired, to squash down the impulse to get mean. “Not even my siblings call me that, so I assume you’re meaning it...well.” Ch’joh snorted. A’jellan went wide-eyed. J’pei continued on mercilessly. “I know there’s an entire Turn before Surugath rises, but I can tell you right now, Dorth isn’t good enough for her, and you’re not good enough for me.” He let his voice get hard. “Call me _anything_ other than my _proper contracted name again_ and I’ll speak to your wingleader about the disrespect. Are we clear, A’jellan?”

 _“We’re_ not good enough?” A’jellan spluttered. His wingmates snickered at him. “We’re more than— _we’re not even interested in you!”_

“Really?” Ch’joh said, spinning around on his chair much more slowly this time, grin widening lazily. “Laughing loudly to get his attention? Comparing him to the golden queen, calling him a cute petname? You sure _sound_ interested.”

J’pei ignored the further splutterings about how A’jellan was a perfectly proper brownrider and therefore only interested in _women,_ no matter how many greens Dorth chased. Ch’joh was having fun messing with him without getting violent and his wingmates weren’t coming to his defense. J’pei didn’t need to do anything else, and he _did_ need to eat dinner.

~

“Why didn’t you invite the others?” P’gyo asked, brows furrowed as seriously as a ten-Turn-old could manage, staring up at the Aunties. All six of the new greenriders sat on the warm stone floor by the hearth the three retired greenriders sometimes gathered around after dinner. None of the Lower Cavern workers were close enough to hear any of their conversation, and Q'cheten kept a careful eye out.

“They’ve got their own secrets to learn, sweetie,” Z’lin said, reaching out and gently ruffling P’gyo’s hair.

“Mm, the blues do,” Q'cheten said a little absently, squinting into the distance. “Brown and bronze don’t need to keep secrets.”

Ch’joh nodded to himself. Greens made up half the dragon population, sometimes a little less, with blues nearly a third, and neither of them were allowed to be wingleaders or permanent wingseconds. Brown and bronzeriders could hold those positions— bronzes were _obliged_ to become wingleaders —and though Ch’joh knew everyone kept plenty of personal secrets, he had the feeling the Aunties were talking about something...older. They’d always had an air of holding something back, when he’d still been a candidate and visited during his free time to share more stories he’d collected, and hear theirs.

“Introductions first,” X’toq said briskly.

“The introduction _is_ the secret,” Z’lin said, raising his eyebrows. He ruffled P’gyo’s hair again before drawing his hand back to the quilted blankets across his lap. “You all know X’toq and Q'cheten, of course. And you’re...let’s see, J’pei, Ch’joh, Om'riel, N’ris, K’tis, and P’gyo, did I get all that?”

Everyone nodded.

“Your arm doing better?” Q'cheten asked N’ris, leaning forward quizzically.

“Yes, sir, though K’tis is still cutting up meat for us,” N’ris said. “And L’mer’s wrist is doing better too.”

“That’s good.”

“You didn’t introduce yourself yet,” Om'riel said, tilting his head to the side, looking at Z’lin.

“Ah, that would be the first secret of the greens.” Z’lin smiled. “Or perhaps second, the first being that there _are_ secrets. You all know, of course, that only boys are allowed to Stand?” Another round of nodding. “Well, when I was much younger than I am today, everyone thought I was a boy, including myself. And I Impressed, and became Z’lin, and had many adventures, and discovered that I am a woman. It’s very nice to meet you all. I’m Zalinna.”

“Oh!” Ch’joh rocked forward excitedly, one hand slipping off his knee to balance on the stone floor. “You’re like Lady Marian!” Zalinna chuckled, smiling. Ch’joh turned to J’pei. “Cecil the Tanner’s the other way around— did I get to any of those? They’re both transgender in a lot of the stories, though of course Cloaked Robin sometimes is and sometimes isn’t, because Robin can be _anyone.”_

“That may be where some of my fondness for the tales came from,” Zalinna said, smiling wider. Ch’joh grinned back. When the weather warmed up enough for the Aunties to leave the hearth, maybe he could convince them to come outside so he could share more Cloaked Robin stories with Namith listening, too.

“So the secret…” Om'riel tilted his head the other way. “The secret is that girls _can_ Impress greens? Not just golds?”

“Mm-hm,” Q'cheten said. “That’s the big secret. The little secret is that Zalinna is transgender; we tried to make that _not_ a secret, oh, what was it, fifty Turns ago?”

“Sixty,” X’toq said. “And all the b-riders told her oh no, you’re a man, you’re just _confused_ because your _dragon_ is female.” He made a rude noise. “Most of us are men, and we’re not confused by our dragon’s gender at all! Zalinna isn’t confused either.”

“Not about _that,_ at least,” Zalinna said ruefully. “Why they don’t let other girls on the sands I will _keep_ being confused by, when they’re always complaining about the lack of candidates!”

“B-riders?” Ch’joh repeated. He could swear he’d overheard the term at the edge of conversations before, but never gotten enough context to figure out what it meant.

“Ah, that’s right, you’ve only needed to differentiate between dragonriders and nonrider weyrfolk before now, haven’t you?” X’toq said. “You’ll soon find it’s _very_ wearing to say blue _and_ brown _and_ bronze every time we want to talk about them. We’re greenriders, they’re b-riders. Same for the dragons.”

“And the queen,” J’pei added quietly.

“And the queen,” Zalinna agreed. “Her rider the only publicly acknowledged woman of the Weyr.”

 _“The_ Weyrwoman,” Ch’joh murmured.

“Exactly.”

P’gyo had missed most of this last exchange, wiggling on his seat on the floor, eyes distant. He suddenly frowned and focused back in on Zalinna. “If you’re a girl…” he tilted his head towards X’toq and Q’cheten, “...and they’re not, why are you _all_ called the Old Aunties?”

“Because we don’t mind being the Aunties,” X’toq said. “But Zalinna would rather not be called ‘Uncle’, and if we all take the title, there’s less arguing with very silly weyrfolk who don’t want to understand.” Ch’joh nodded again; that made sense.

“Okay,” P’gyo said, satisfied with the answer. He wiggled more. “Are there more secrets? Onth woke up again…”

“You’ll learn them later,” Zalinna said, and P’gyo was off like an arrow, running for the barracks. The other new greenriders left almost as quickly; Ch’joh could feel Namith’s mind at the back of his twirling into wakefulness. Onth was not _quiet_ when she woke.

~

J’pei lingered by the hearth as everyone else left. They only had to get from the Lower Caverns to the barracks. They didn’t need him for that. And he could run to catch up and get back to Surugath soon.

“You’ve a question,” Q'cheten said, idly stroking the stitches on his lap-quilt, watching J’pei.

J’pei _tried_ to make it a question, but it came out as an accusation instead. “My sisters could Impress.” _My sisters wanted to Stand so badly, and you didn’t help them._

“Greenriders don’t set policy,” X’toq said, a hint of teeth in his tone.

“But there’s so _many_ of us—”

“We tried,” Zalinna cut him off. “Fifty Turns ago. The Weyrleader at the time forbid it, and the Headwoman said any girl who so much as _attended_ the Hatching would be fostered outweyr immediately and not allowed back.”

J’pei closed his eyes, slowly unclenched his fists. He could feel the Aunties’ weary bitterness, their ancient anger at the injustice, pushing against his mind almost as strongly as Surugath’s sleepy curiosity. He swallowed. “How do you stand it?”

“Very poorly, some days,” Q'cheten said dryly. “Go cuddle your hatchling, J’pei. The world will still be unjust when you get back.”


	11. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early AAT 2495, Winter

Ch’joh was not having a good week. First Month ending had flipped some sort of lever in C’gan, turning him from a taskmaster that impatiently prompted them with lyrics while reciting the duty ballads, to one that irritably snapped that they ought to _know_ them all by now. When Ch’joh snapped back that they _did_ know them, they just kept getting mixed up because the tunes were too similar, he got assigned three afternoons of midden duty. Namith hated the smell, and refused to come near until he washed up. She still kept him company, though, sitting upwind and constantly sending him whatever was on her mind.

_That snow pile is melting faster than that one. My tail is cold. Are you warm? I want to be warm. That smells bad. That cloud looks like a chicken. Why can’t we visit the chickens? We won’t eat them! Promise! Are the chickens with red feathers the bronzes? That cloud looks like a rock. The older dragons say some rocks are for eating and some rocks are for catching and spitting out. That’s dumb. Why can you only eat some rocks?_

“Ask a firelizard,” Ch’joh muttered, taking another swing with the drying rake. “They ate rocks first, after all.” She could hear him no matter how far apart they were, his words just as loud in his mind as they were spoken.

_I WANT to ask a firelizard but there aren’t any here. Where are they?_

“The beach, I think. If they even exist.”

_What’s a beach?_

“Like the lakeshore, but sandier.”

Over by said lakeshore, J’pei led the other teenage trainee riders and their dragons in energetic games to stay warm. More dragons than teens, actually; C’gan had taken the youngest five humans to join the weyrbrats for afternoon lessons well inside the Lower Caverns. Sanra had taken the job while the hatchlings were still ravenous all the time, but now C’gan was able to take on his full duties as Weyrsinger as well as Weyrlingmaster again. As C’gan was harsher on the teenagers for failing to recite duty ballads properly, J’pei had unofficially taken the role of afternoon tutor to the others.

If this was what “more flexible” and “less hidebound” looked like, Ch’joh was damn glad he never met the _previous_ Weyrlingmaster. He spat a thanks into the Wind at the thought.

“Getting real sick of being called a featherhead,” Ch’joh told Namith, when he finished the smelly chore and hung up the rake. “We know the _ideas._ Who cares if we get the stanzas in the wrong order?”

“Ah, C’gan’s in that kind of mood, eh?” a sympathetic voice said. Ch’joh didn’t jump, he’d noticed the other rider slowly approaching while he worked, but he kept his hand against the wall of the tool shed, in easy reaching distance of the rake, out of long habit. He turned and saw the familiar face of M’kel, Daleth’s rider, and his reassuringly green shoulder-knots.

“He made Om'riel cry yesterday,” Ch’joh told M’kel, letting his hand slip off the wall. “Because the kid sang the words out of order in the dragon anatomy song. In the _listing_ part. It wasn’t like he left any out.”

“C’gan probably couldn’t _tell_ if he left any out, when they’re re-ordered,” M’kel said. “He’s a traditionalist who’s good at memorization. He’s also just going to stay this cranky until the Spring Games are over. Sorry. A lot of the retired riders get like that when training picks up.” In his late fifties, M’kel still had a long way to go before retiring from the fighting wings himself. “Anyway, I’m here to tell you there’s a meeting next rest day, after sunset. All you baby greenlings should be there, and _don’t_ mention it to any non-greens.”

“Oh? Another chat with the Aunties?”

“Ah, whoops.” M’kel rubbed the back of his head, looking just as embarrassed as any kid who’d gotten ahead of themselves with exciting news. “Not with the Aunties! You can chat with them whenever, ask them anything, but they only do the introduction. You’ll get the other secrets from the rest of us at the meetings. We don’t have an official council chamber like the bronzes, so everyone takes turns hosting, but this time we’ll be in that empty weyr over the herdbeast shed, since none of you can fly yet.”

Before Ch’joh could ask when tomorrow, or they were supposed to bring snacks or anything, M’kel snapped his finger. “Right! You need to know now. I’m part of the Circle. There’s five of us, you’ll get introduced. There used to be more? Not while I’ve been around. Five is the smallest it gets. You have troubles, you bring them to the Circle. We can’t do as much as we’d like, but…” M’kel sighed. “We all look out for each other, right? Do what we can.”

M’kel’s eyes went unfocused for a moment. “I’ve got to go, patrol’s starting. Remember, next rest day, after sunset!” M’kel took off running in an easy, ground-eating lope, waving a farewell. A second later Daleth swooped down from her weyr, touching down on the snow and slush. M’kel jumped up her elbow and swung onto her neck without breaking stride, and then they were gone, flying off to join their wing.

“Namith?” Ch’joh called out. She trilled, the image of M’kel and Daleth’s smooth take-off swirling from her mind to his, blending into one multi-faceted memory. “We’re gonna be that cool soon.”

_Cooler!_

Ch’joh and Namith ran over to the lake together, eager to join their friends and pass along what M’kel had said. Namith spread her wings as they ran, getting the muscles more practice staying extended, and catching herself when she stumbled. Ch’joh hadn’t had to rescue her from holes or tangling groundcover in weeks.

Surugath noticed them first, bouncing across the slush to bowl Namith over. The two dragons went rolling, trilling happily. Ch’joh slowed his run to a jog, dodging around them. J’pei smiled, waved, and went back to focusing on his and Om’riel’s hands. Apparently when Omoriel first came to Benden as a fosterling, Sanra had discovered he learned the contents of teaching ballads better if she translated them into Telgar hand-sign, and let him recite them that way. It didn’t help with C’gan’s perfectionism, but the weyrlings all reasoned if the teachings really mattered, then taking the time to translate them was worth it.

“You smell,” N’ris told Ch’joh with a grin when he reached everyone. Ch’joh rolled his eyes; N’ris was assigned midden-duty for tomorrow afternoon, having been caught making rude gestures behind C’gan’s back that morning.

“Did M’kel need something?” J’pei asked, when he and Om’riel finished with a verse.

“Uh…” Ch’joh flicked his eyes towards L’mer and Q’resh. They were nice kids, but still blueriders, and M’kel had been pretty clear about not telling non-greens about the meeting. Shells. Have to talk about it later. “Just, you know, passing on a ‘hello’ from the Aunties.” J’pei blinked, and then nodded slightly, just a jerk of his chin. N’ris noticed his look, and frowned.

They hadn’t even gotten through another verse yet when greenrider L’deni and retired bluerider R’len came striding over.

“L’mer!” R’len said, waving broadly. “Come introduce Riheth to Lamath. Need some help reaching his wing-joints for oiling these days.” Without breaking stride, R’len dropped an arm over L’mer’s shoulders and steered him down the lakeshore towards Lamath. L’deni came to a stop by the teens, and shoved his hands into his pockets after giving a much shorter wave of greeting.

N’ris glanced at L’deni, then smiled brightly at Q’resh. “You should go with them! Mianath is so shy all the time, you need to make him meet more blues!”

Q’resh looked a little startled, but he still quietly said, “Okay,” and followed the other two. All the young dragons but Orpith and Everth loped along after them, burbling. The twins’ greens sniffed at L’deni, clearly deciding he was more interesting than meeting Lamath.

“That man’s got to be the least convincing liar I’ve ever met,” L’deni said laconically, scratching idly at his jaw. He patted Orpith’s snout when she whuffed his wingrider cords. “No one who watches him at the Turn’s End dances would ever believe he needs help oiling Lamath. Still, nice of him to give us some privacy.”

“Is he?” Ch’joh asked, raising his eyebrows dubiously. “Or do the blues have a Circle for imparting wisdom to their young as well?” Smart to have it be more than one person; Ch’joh wondered if he’d have learned the whole Charter earlier if the Harper Hall sent their teachers out in groups instead of vulnerable lone travelers.

“Oh, M’kel told you that part then, good.” L’deni glanced towards the blueriders’ retreating forms. “R’len only decided to talk to L’mer when he noticed me heading your way, so perhaps we jogged his memory, not that that’s any slower than the rest of him.” He nodded at N’ris. “Nice work with Q’resh.”

N’ris sighed. “I don’t think R’len noticed him at all. He’s so _quiet.”_

“Circle?” Om'riel asked curiously. J’pei looked over at Ch’joh, who nodded to answer the unspoken question, _yes, this is why M’kel was talking to me._ He’d have to remember to tell everyone about the meeting later.

“Yeah, I’m not in it,” L’deni said. “But there’s five greenriders that sort of keep an eye on things, and if you need to complain to some wingleader about a problem, you should tell the Circle too, ‘cause half the time the wingleaders won’t bother doing anything about problems, but we can…” L’deni shrugged, then raised one hand to waggle in the air. “...exert pressure through numbers. Not too openly, mind, and you’re not supposed to tell anyone who _isn’t_ a greenrider about it.”

“More secrets!” N’ris said excitedly. “Like the Aunties told us?”

“Yes!” L’deni pointed at him approvingly. “So, Circle is M’kel, N’rissa, V’kra, M’thy, and D’rees right now, which can be a little awkward for timing because N’rissa and D’rees are in the same wing as each other, but it can’t be helped. There’s some policy decision making the Circle handles too, but more people are involved in that, we’ll fill you in more later. You’ve got enough to handle right now with training.”

“Why is the Circle a secret?” J’pei asked. Ch’joh ran a hand down his face, sighing. Why _wouldn’t_ it be a secret?

“It’s not exactly an official Weyr-sanctioned idea,” L’deni said.

“Neither are specialization tracks and their heads,” J’pei said stubbornly. “Headwoman Manora is the only Lower Caverns authority the Weyr recognizes formally, but everyone _knows_ who the heads are.”

“Prevents retaliation,” L’deni said flatly, which Ch’joh expected and, judging by the way his eyes widened, J’pei _hadn’t._ “Manora and her delegates aren’t exactly flying patrols or doing Games training with the riders who make trouble. Anyway. Now you all know, and that’s not even why I’m talking to you all today. …All. Huh.” L’deni tilted his head suddenly. “Aren’t there supposed to be six of you?”

“P’gyo is at afternoon lessons,” J’pei explained.

“Shards,” L’deni said, dismayed, and ran a hand through his hair. “That young?”

“You Impressed that young, sir,” K’tis pointed out.

“Aye, and we’ll hope his dragon matures later than my Ledbuth did.” L’deni slowly blew out a long puff of air, looking blindly down at the slushy snow under all their feet. “Still in afternoon lessons. Shards.”

“Half our clutch is, sir,” N’ris said. “And so was the last one. And our mom says the one before that was, too. Isn’t it normal?”

“You and her are remembering wrong,” L’deni said, looking back up at the green weyrlings in front of him. Orpith squacked indignantly at the correction. L’deni ignored her. “Might be half under sixteen, most clutches, but it’s usually only a third at most that’s twelve or younger.”

“If it’s alarming, the Weyr should bring back Search,” J’pei said. “And give more older boys the chance without making them _live_ here so long.”

“Wouldn’t that twist everyone’s tails,” L’deni said, and laughed. “Well, that’s not what M’kel wanted me to tell you all anyway. We need to teach you how to sneak out of the Weyr before your dragons are flying, so you won’t try something dumb and get caught.”

“Sneaking out’s easy,” Om'riel said, slightly confused. “It’s sneaking back _in_ that’s hard.”

L’deni bit his tongue on whatever he’d been about to say next and stared at Om'riel. “...Elaborate.”

“Um.” Om'riel laced his fingers together nervously. “Ah. No? I’m not...supposed to say.”

“Is Om'riel contracted from...Omoriel?” L’deni asked, and when Om'riel nodded, the older rider pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “So _that’s_ what all the ‘Omo this’ and ‘Omo that’ was about. Those two are in for _such_ a scolding from D’rees for this.” L’deni sighed again, crossed his arms, and leaned back, letting his weight rest on his back leg. “I take it they swore you to secrecy?”

Om'riel shook his head. “L’colm won’t do oaths. They just asked me not to let anyone know I was coming with them.”

“They took you _with_ them?” L’deni’s tone rose to an impressively high level of surprised. “I thought they just _told_ you. Shells. You know if you’d gotten blue like they half-hoped, we’d all be in a world of trouble?”

“Would not!” Om'riel flushed, voice cracking into an even more indignant squack than Orpith had let out. “I wouldn’t tell _any_ bluerider! I never even told _Tinall_ and we _like_ her!”

“You just let it slip to all of us, lad,” L’deni said. Om'riel flushed harder and twisted his fingers into an anxious knot.

“He gets the point, L’deni,” J’pei said quietly. “But they probably just told him to keep it secret from people who aren’t greenriders, and all of us here are.”

“Surprised you never noticed him ditching chores, J’pei,” L’deni said. “All the women used to brag about what a responsible child you were.”

“J’pei did _too_ notice!” Om'riel said. “He’s just _nice_ about all that stuff!”

“All right, all right!” L’deni said, holding up his hands.

“Are any of you ever gonna explain what’s going on?” N’ris asked, whiny enough that Sanra would have chided him if she were there. Ch’joh reached out and ruffled his hair, earning a look of indignant exasperation.

“Right, yes, getting to that,” L’deni said. “So you know when a wing leaves on patrol or to train, or the retired riders take the women gathering, or someone on their off time gets permission to leave, they have to let the watch pair know where they’re going to be, and an estimate of how long they expect to be gone? And that if those plans change they have to send someone back to update the watch pair, so that if someone at the Weyr needs to find them in a hurry, they _can?”_

Everyone nodded.

“And if you just skip out without permission you get in all sorts of trouble? Right. Well. That’s really about controlling the _riders,_ isn’t it? If a _dragon_ wants to leave, no one’s going to yell at _them.”_

“But dragons only go places _with_ their riders,” K’tis said, trying to furrow his brows and raise them at the same time.

“Dragons only go _between_ with their riders,” L’deni said. “But they _fly_ without us all the time, and leave the Weyr unquestioned during…?”

Ch’joh snickered. “You use the _mating flights_ as a smokescreen?”

“If they’re going to complain about our darlings being randy compared to the queen, we might as well get something _useful_ out of that reputation,” L’deni drawled. “Everyone knows that greens who aren’t even close to rising will tag along out of curiosity and for fun, unlike blues and browns and bronzes, who only join in when they want to catch someone. So if a green who isn’t glowing flies up with a whole crowd, and happens to duck out of sight behind a mountaintop or cloudbank…” L’deni grinned.

“We can’t do it until C’gan says there’s nothing more to teach us about _between’ing,_ though,” Om'riel said seriously. “It’s more dangerous than leaving with a wing or for a lesson, because everyone’s so excited.”

“Very true,” L’deni said. “And you’ll want to watch the patrol and training rosters, so you don’t pop out somewhere with a whole wing already there.”

“Damn,” Ch’joh muttered. The rosters were chalked onto a big grid on the wall, not onto a map. Ch’joh had no idea what the assignments were just looking at it.

“Just get one of us to check it for you,” J’pei suggested quietly.

“Thanks,” Ch’joh said.

“Getting back in _is_ tricky though,” L’deni said. “If you’re only going somewhere for a really short time, you can just fly back in with the mating group coming home. If you want to be gone longer, make sure to hitch a ride with an early morning mating flight when there’s still someone who looks like she’ll rise in the afternoon, and then just sort of lurk. That’s hard to predict, though, so the best shot is to lie as low on your dragon’s neck as you can, keep your mind quiet, and prompt her to think about the pretty rivers around Benden so if the watch pair question her, they’ll just think she got distracted from the mating flight and spent her day sight-seeing.”

“Sounds like a lot of hassle,” K’tis said.

“Oh, it is,” L’deni agreed easily. “Most of us don’t try more than a couple times a Turn, and I’ve some friends that would rather just leave openly without permission and take midden duty or further restrictions than try to sneak back in. But now you all know, so you won’t go trying something even more ridiculous.”

~

 _We’re doing better today,_ J’pei thought, one hand resting on Surugath’s shoulder, the other on K’tis’s back to encourage him while he sang a few lines. C’gan tapped his fingers against his leg in time to the song, eyes half-closed against the morning light.

The latest song was about the different types of plants, and how many units of different measurements they were allowed within a hold, or in what kind of enclosures. Herb boxes that could be withdrawn inside shuttered windows were allowed in lived-in chambers, but not storage rooms, lest they be forgotten when the claxon rang. Raised beds of edible plants were allowed within meters, trees and shrubberies with grounded roots were banned for dragonlengths.

K’tis finished his line, and N’ris took up the next one. C’gan didn’t frown or stop them, which meant K’tis had gotten his right. They’d spent yesterday after lessons trying out one of Esme’s old tricks; learning a song from the back. You learned the last line, and then add the second-to-last-line and repeat the last, and then add the third-to-last-line, and so on, until you reach the beginning. As long as someone who knew the first few lines well started the recitation, everyone else should know the end so well that the rest fell into place.

Surugath and half the other young dragons hummed along. The rest napped. Surugath hummed louder than everyone else, her lungs already bigger. All the hatchlings started the same size, but grew at different rates. Those with the youngest riders grew slowest, and those with the eldest, the fastest. It wasn’t in any of the duty songs they’d learned so far, but when J’pei went to the Old Aunties, worried at how fast Surugath outstripped her clutchmates, they assured him this was normal.

“She’s trying to catch up to you,” X’toq said.

“Or maybe she’s impatient and chose you so she wouldn’t have to wait for _you_ to grow up,” Zalinna suggested.

Q’cheten had rolled his eyes at his two ancient friends. “It’s nothing to do with temperament. It just is. We don’t know why.”

N’ris held a word for too long. K’tis stiffened, watching C’gan’s face. N’ris sang the rest of the line at a slower pace, drawing out each word, clearly trying to remember them, but he _did_ hold each note long enough to give himself time. But when little N’tsu drew in his breath to start the next verse, C’gan held up his hand.

“N’ris. Finish the rest of it.”

“Um. Okay.”

“No, don’t tell me okay, just _do_ it.”

N’ris gulped. Hummed the line he’d just sung, and kept singing. _“A softwood treeeeee...is nice and eeeeaaasyyyyyy to sculpt and bend, but…”_

 _Surugath!_ J’pei thought, as N’ris hesitated. _Tell Orpith to tell N’ris ‘if within five dragonlengths, your ways must mend’._

 _“Iiiiiifffff wiiiiiiithiiiiinnnnnn…”_ N’ris jerked, startled, and then sang, _“Five dragonlengths, your ways must mend,”_ at a normal pace with no awkwardly drawn out words. He managed the next line just fine, stumbled again when singing about plants that were allowed closer in swampy climates than in dry ones. J’pei kept passing lines through their dragons whenever N’ris hesitated, probably far more than he needed to, until the last third of the song when N’ris stopped needing help.

“...well,” C’gan said, as the last note petered out. “Better than yesterday. N’tsu, give us the first line of the anatomy song, and this time, everyone sings for as long as I’m pointing at them.”

J’pei worried for a moment that meant C’gan was going to point randomly around the circle, making them jump into the song at unexpected places. Sanra used to do that once the weyrbrats knew a teaching ballad back to front, but she was far more forgiving of failure than C’gan was. Fortunately, that didn’t seem to occur to the Weyrlingmaster, and he simply pointed slowly around the circle, making those who sang hesitantly sing for longer than those who sang confidently.

They got through the anatomy song without mistakes, this time, and J’pei breathed a sigh of relief when C’gan dismissed them for lunch. No repeat of yesterday, when Surugath had shrieked and mantled at the Weyrlingmaster for upsetting Om'riel again.

“Hey,” Ch’joh said quietly, once they’d sat down with their food. “C’gan forgot to give us an afternoon task today.”

Good. They all needed the break. They also needed time to bond with their dragons outside of daily care and lessons. They’d start pre-flight training soon, C’gan had said, which was nice because their dragons would be _in_ the lessons instead of just watching, but it was going to be exhausting.

If it weren’t so cold out, they could practice acrobatic dancing by the lake like the older green and blueriders did, or introduce their dragons to wildflowers in the Bowl, or just find somewhere to sunbathe. As it was, the older weyrlings just walked back to the barracks after lunch and spent the afternoon in a circle on the floor, leaning against their napping dragons and chatting.

“I wish our dragons could come into the Lower Caverns,” L’mer said, brushing imaginary dust off Riheth’s blue tail. “Even if our friends were busy, it’d be easier for them to stop and say hi if we were in there.”

“Yeah,” Ch’joh agreed. “But can you imagine Namith going _what’s this? what’s this?_ over the dishwashing station? Or the laundry chamber?”

“Namith couldn’t _get_ to the laundry chamber,” L’mer pointed out. “The entrance is too small.”

“It wasn’t a sevenday ago,” Ch’joh sighed, and flicked his dragon’s snout. She whistled sleepily at him. “Did you hear that, you insatiable monster? You’re growing too fast to explore. If you don’t slow down you’ll get too big for the barracks before winter is over.”

This was a blatant lie, as the barracks’ door was big enough for a half-grown bronze to still fit through, and Namith wasn’t growing _that_ fast.

No one suggested they go hang out in the dining cavern _without_ their dragons. The older riders had long grown comfortable enough in their bond to do so, but all of the weyrlings grew anxious if separated for longer than the length of a meal. J’pei wished Gullers and Esme would sneak out to visit again, but he didn’t know how to ask them. They were busy, and no matter how supportive Gullers was, he knew seeing him with Surugath hurt her.

 _I wouldn’t hurt her,_ Surugath told him, confused. _We love her._ J’pei turned and buried his face against her side.

The conversation swirled on around them, eventually changing into a counting game when the other dragons woke up and the twins wondered aloud if math was one of the things riders were supposed to do for their dragons or not. Om'riel’s Reeth got the hang of subtraction faster than the others and was very smug about it.

 _If there are two herdbeasts and I eat one, there are still two,_ Surugath grumbled. _They’re just not in the same place anymore._

“Tomorrow, multiplication!” Ch’joh said, grinning at Namith, who did almost as well as Reeth at the counting game, but only because she distracted her opponents with nips and tail-flicks so they forgot their answers. Blue Mianath had avoided this treatment by not volunteering any answers at all.

“If they even remember addition and subtraction tomorrow,” K’tis said glumly. Q’resh patted his shoulder sympathetically. C’gan had been coming down on K’tis and N’ris the hardest lately. J’pei had a bad feeling if the Weyrlingmaster called them and Om'riel featherheads or dimglows one more time, Surugath actually _would_ bite him.

 _Don’t need to bite him if you do first,_ Surugath said.

“It wouldn’t really help anything and you know it,” J’pei muttered, but couldn’t help but laugh when she sent him an image of J’pei biting C’gan on the arm, and the Weyrlingmaster jumping like a startled feline.

~

Ch’joh climbed the back stairs to the empty weyr over the herdbeast supply shed, a purloined glowbasket held high to help the other weyrlings see. He half expected to see Rishall at the top, waiting with lunch and a tired smile.

Instead nearly two dozen riders in off-duty clothes, each sporting at least one green accent, greeted him warmly, reaching out to help him past the last step. Ch’joh handed the closest rider the glowbasket instead of taking the offered hand and got out of the way of the other weyrlings. N’bast and L’colm waved Om'riel over to their corner. L’deni clasped J’pei’s hand. A rider easily in his seventies ruffled P’gyo’s hair.

Brighter glowbaskets hung from the ancient hooks drilled into the ceiling. Ch’joh wondered how they’d keep the light from falling across the Bowl. Then he saw gleaming green hide behind everyone; several dragons blocked the arch between the inner and outer weyr.

“Welcome to your first meeting!” M’kel said.

“We really need a name for these things,” someone called out from the crowd.

“Not having a name is traditional,” M’kel said stoutly, and grinned. “Besides, we’d have to get everyone to agree on one.”

Ch’joh sat down on a round cushion between L’deni and J’pei. Without any real furniture in the empty weyr, everyone made do with small things brought from their own, putting them all on the same level on the floor. They’d brought work baskets, too. Once the greetings died down, all of the established riders took out sewing, knitting, and even a few pieces of whittling. Ch’joh rocked on his cushion, peering around to get a look at the entire weyr and identify everyone.

“Rules, do we need to go over rules?” G’nes asked. He’d been introduced to Ch’joh as one of L’deni and K’sawa’s clutchmates months ago.

“Right, yes, rules,” M’kel said. He stood back up from the many-times-repaired square cushion he’d sat down on a minute before, realized all the green weyrlings were craning their necks to look up at him, and sat down again. He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “These meetings are secret from everyone who isn’t a greenrider. If they get nosy you can say we were hanging out, you know, just happened to get together so doing our gear maintenance isn’t so terribly boring.”

“We’re not?” K’tis asked, confused.

“Well, we are,” M’kel said. “But nobody needs to know that we plan these, or how many of us show up, or what we talk about. Definitely not what we talk about. There’s going to be a lot of singing and storytelling and you _don’t_ share them outside these meetings unless you _already_ heard it outside them.”

“So if J’pei sings one of his grandfather’s sailing tales for us, we can sing it again whenever,” Ch’joh asked, wanting to make sure. “But if one of you sings about, um, I don’t know, how common it is for green hatchlings to eat bugs, we _don’t_ sing that anywhere else?”

“Yes!” M’kel exclaimed, and made the flight hand-sign for an affirmative answer. Then he tilted his head to the side, grinning even broader than before. “Which one of you discovered bugs first, then?”

“Surugath,” J’pei said quietly.

“Onth likes the crunch,” P’gyo added.

“They’ll get less interested once they start catching their own wherries,” M’kel said.

“Usually,” G’nes said. He shook his head suddenly as though clearing some thought, and pointed at the nearest weyrlings, N’ris and K’tis. “Did anyone tell you about the Circle?”

“I did,” L’deni said before the twins could answer.

“You said, um.” Om’riel glanced up from pulling some yarn-ends from L’colm and N’bast’s shared workbasket. “Half the time wingleaders don’t bother doing anything about problems, so we should tell the Circle. And that…” Om’riel frowned, yarn twisted up in his fingers. “It’s a little awkward for timing because N’rissa and D’rees are in the same wing together?”

“We make it work,” D’rees said from the far end of the weyr. “Part of the planning for these meetings is to make sure all of us from _different_ wings get some time together, make sure everyone’s in the loop.” He waved his hand, then pointed to the much older rider sitting next to him. “This is N’rissa! He’s nicer than me.”

“Nice to meet you all,” N’rissa said. “Everyone knows M’kel. That’s M’thy,” he pointed to another grey-haired rider sitting by the dragons blocking the ledge, who waved too. “And V’kra isn’t here because his wingleader always volunteers for overnight patrols.”

Which meant he’d probably be awake at times the rest of the Circle wasn’t. Useful.

“I think we’d better stop with introductions and start with singing,” M’kel said. “Get to other things another night. Don’t want to keep the kids up too late, you all remember how exhausting training is.”

“No, I’ve deliberately forgotten,” D’rees said dryly, then grimaced. “At least it’s C’gan, now.” There was a chorus of agreement from most of the riders in the weyr. N’bast and L’colm just shared an eyeroll. Must’ve heard a few too many times how lucky their clutch was not to have had the previous Weyrlingmaster.

“How about _The Beach Banquet,_ to start?” L’deni suggested. M’kel smiled and signed approval of that. L’deni stood up and paced slowly into the rough middle of the weyr, humming a melody. Everyone quieted down to listen, though once he launched into the opening verse all the busily knitting and sewing dragonriders leaned over to whisper things to their friends during the song. J’pei and Ch’joh glanced at each other, hands empty of chores, and shrugged.

Ch’joh only half-listened at first, already familiar with catching spiderclaws and scouring shorelines for other creatures. It never hurt to learn more foraging tips, but he didn’t need to focus too hard to memorize the tune, and he hadn’t finished seeing who all was here, yet. He wanted a better idea of what kind of tasks the other greenriders were doing too. Maybe he’d be able to memorize the boring teaching ballads, if he could find something to do with his hands than just _fidget._ C’gan had already snapped at him for playing with his belt-knife during rote memorization a few times.

Several repetitions of the chorus later, once he stopped trying to identify everyone in the weyr and really listen, Ch’joh realized the song wasn’t simply about what was and wasn’t edible at the beach. The narrator was a green dragon, too exhausted to hunt wherries or swim after fish, because she’d risen to mate while far from the Weyr, no male dragons close enough to notice her heat, and flown frantically until passing out on a strange shore.

Between the silly lines about how spiderclaws scuttled and frondfish waved, the chorus wailed that her rider’s voice was faint, her way home forgotten, her wings sore. In some places, the melody and pitch mimicked an anxious dragon’s creels. Ch’joh glanced at J’pei again, nervously this time, saw him staring stone-faced at the far wall. Tried to put a hand on his arm, only to find that they were _already_ tightly holding hands.

After chewing on reeds and slurping fish out of tide pools, the narrator’s wail change to happy bugling, as her rider’s voice grew stronger. The final iteration of the chorus brought rider to dragon as a wingmate’s passenger, and a promise to fly home together.

J’pei sighed in relief. Ch’joh couldn’t quite relax, happy as he was with the song’s ending, wondering what other cautionary tales they were in for. He kept ahold of J’pei’s hand as L’deni sat back down and another rider stood to sing.

The next song was just a punny one from Turn’s End, though, and the one after that a romantic farce set to a teaching ballad’s tune.

Chatter rose after the third song, riders in different wings catching up on gossip they didn’t want to tell in the dining cavern, speculation about the Spring Games and the Gathers. P’gyo, N’ris, and K’tis fell asleep in a pile.

“So,” M’kel said later, helping them get the younger weyrlings back to the barracks. “That was one of the secrets.”

“That we have meetings?” Ch’joh asked.

“Mm, no.” M’kel adjusted his grip on P’gyo, carried on his back. “That was a true-song, about the beach.”

“Being grounded while in heat is for everyone's own good? That’s not a secret. C’gan and Manora already drilled that into our heads _before_ we Impressed.”

“Help me out here, J’pei.”

“That’s what I heard too,” J’pei said. He spoke quietly, but not quietly enough to hide the distressed edge in his voice.

“That’s not what it was,” Om’riel said, confused by their answers. “We already know that, it’s not a secret, so it can’t be that. All the _scary_ stories and songs about suitor-less flights end before reuniting.” The glowbasket wobbled as he gestured. “This one was about...even if it takes _forever_ to get back together, because dragons need our help going _between_ , and you’re lost so the rider has to guide their friends into flying a long way, you’re still bonded. Even if you can't even talk, you can feel each other.”

“You got it,” M’kel said proudly. “Granted, that song is a thousand Turns old and none of us _want_ to go through something like that...it might keep someone from panicking, someday.”

~

“Higher— no, that’s further back, not higher up. Drop it and try again, and this time keep the second joint straight. Like Tagath is doing.”

C’gan’s ancient blue slowly raised his wings up into the third flight position of the day. The weyrlings did their best to copy, shaking out fidgets, craning their necks to the side to look at what their clutchmates were doing instead of the senior dragon, mentally asking their riders _is this right?_

Supposedly, baby dragons were just as capable as teaching themselves to fly as the mythical firelizards were. Their frequent games of tag, loping after each other across the Bowl, were practice for keeping track of each other’s location in the air to avoid collision. Or so C’gan said; J’pei murmured to Ch’joh once that that was just as likely as human children’s tag games being practice to avoid collisions while running around Gathers or other crowds.

“Gentle wing stretches now, left wing first— other left, Namith. Mirror Tagath.”

Tagath slowly stretched out his right wing, legs tucked under his body, tail wrapped around himself. The dozen young dragons lined up in front of him to imitate the pose, though very few bothered to wrap their tails around.

“Namith, keep up.”

“You distracted us,” Ch’joh said, glancing up, and went back to quietly murmuring something to his dragon.

C’gan sighed deeply. “What is it this time?”

“She didn’t know what a mirror was, sir.”

“Of course. Well, bring that wing back in, stretch the other one— _slowly!”_

Surugath yelped as Namith’s wingtip snapped against the edge of hers, and jumped to her feet. They were all growing so fast, none of them remembered how much room they took up. On Surugath’s other side, Reeth squeaked and fell over. The Weyrlingmaster covered his face with his hands as all twelve dragons he and Tagath were trying to lead through pre-flight stretches jumped up, fell over, or rolled sideways on the snow-dusted grass, exercises forgotten in a matter of seconds.

They wouldn’t be flying for another month at least anyway, and they had most of the Turn left until they could even _try_ to carry their riders. J’pei shared a quick grin with Ch’joh before helping the younger riders get their dragons lined back up, with a few more feet of distance between everyone this time.

No sooner had C’gan started on the next stretch than Surugath froze, then craned her neck around to look past the teaching blue pair.

 _It’s Gullers!_ she exclaimed. J’pei looked over too, to see his older sister in the distance, trudging with her toolbox down the stairs of an unoccupied queen’s weyr. The usual longing he felt whenever he saw her, or Esme, or their old friends, to sit somewhere quiet and catch up, ached in his chest. They’d snuck out to visit as much as they could before Turn’s End, but he’d hardly seen them at all since then, even at meals. _Let’s go!_

 _What?_ was all J’pei had time to think, before Surugath broke out of the line and bounced across the Bowl, wingtips catching at the tufts of snowy grass, bugling a high, cracking, adolescent call. J’pei ran after her, more coordinated but already shorter limbed, ignoring C’gan and Tagath bellowing behind them. _We’re supposed to be practicing so we can fly!_

 _We can practice anytime!_ Surugath said glibly. A few yards from the base of the stairs, Gullers paused, shielding her eyes to watch them approach.

 _“SURUGATH!”_ J’pei yelled, as his dragon collided with his sister and knocked her flat to the ground. _She’s not a dragon!_

 _I know that,_ Surugath said, half irritable, half smug. _She won’t bite me like Reeth does. And I was gentle._

“Gullers,” J’pei gasped out when he reached them. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry—”

“This is surprisingly comfortable,” Gullers said calmly. Surugath lounged on top of her like a feline, so only Guller’s head and one arm were visible. J’pei fell onto his knees and grabbed her hand. “Like a hug for all of me. If only the ground weren’t so cold and wet.”

“Surugath, let Gullers up,” J’pei said.

_Why? Reeth does this to her rider all the time._

That was true, but… “Because being squished into the icy slush isn’t good for humans,” J’pei said.

 _But what if she goes away again?_ Surugath asked, smugness replaced by anxiety. _What if she goes into the caves and we don’t see her ever again?_

“That’s not going to happen,” J’pei said, with a firmness he didn’t feel. Surugath snorted.

“What’s not going to happen?” Gullers asked, patting Surugath on the snout.

“You disappearing,” J’pei said. “Us never seeing you again. Surugath, let her _up.”_

“Oh,” Guller said. Surugath huffed, but she rolled over onto her side, wings flopping. Gullers sat up, and patted the nearest bit of dragon. “I’m not going to disappear.”

 _You already did,_ Surugath said irritably. Not that Gullers could hear her. _You went away and we didn’t get to see you in FOREVER._

“It hasn’t been forever,” J’pei said. In the distance, C’gan started everyone else back at the beginning of the stretch cycle. J’pei knee-walked over to lean against Surugath, sitting next to Gullers. “It’s only been…”

“...three sevendays,” Guller said, faster with the math than him. “Nearly four. Shards.”

They sat unspeaking for a minute, snowmelt seeping through their thick winter leggings, Surugath humming and whistling to herself the only sound.

“Esme got chewed out for distracting you last month, when she passed along all that Turn’s End gossip,” Guller said eventually.

“She didn’t tell me that,” J’pei said, frowning. He’d seen Esme since then, the last time he saw Gullers, actually, the two of them sneaking out to join some of the weyrling games by the lake. “And she was _helping,_ she brought everyone those hide-oils.”

“Meanwhile if anyone’s weyrmate gets back from patrol and steals them away from their chores, nobody says boo,” Gullers said cynically. “If Esme’d been helping P’trikor or F’lar oil their dragons, nobody’d care. But _you_ lot haven’t even _glided_ let alone _flown_ and that means spending time with you is interfering with training.”

“So we’ve just gotten you in trouble,” J’pei said glumly.

“Only if anyone notices,” Guller said. She reached over her shoulder to scratch underneath Surugath’s wing-joint, earning a blissful draconic sigh. _“You’re_ going to be in a lot more trouble, I bet.”

A glance past the edge of Surugath’s wing showed C’gan standing hands-on-hips, staring in their direction. J’pei sighed, from an emotion far different than Surugath had. “Yeah.”

~

J’pei tried to watch for the Circle working, now that he knew about them. Everyone in Benden was used to M’kel sailing into Lower Caverns spats, soothing ruffled feathers, and either sticking around to cheer people up or immediately sailing off again if he had wing duties. Was that for the Circle, or was that just...M’kel? D’rees had always been more likely to egg arguments on then calm them down, and J’pei didn’t know the other three Circle members as well.

 _Maybe I could ask?_ Not now, though. All the riders were busy with Games training right now. They didn’t need J’pei bothering them, when he could just keep watching and figure everything out on his own.

Even with patrol and training schedules so packed, the greenriders still found time to hold their meetings, and help the green weyrlings get to them.

Tonight P’gyo leaned against J’pei’s side, already sleepy, and not bothering with any craftwork to stay awake. It was important that he attend and hear the secrets, the Aunties said, but if he slept through most of them and had to hear them again later, that was fine. J’pei hadn’t brought craftwork either, not wanting to juggle it later when helping the younger riders back down from G’nes’s weyr.

G’nes paced under the broad, shallow arch separating his living quarters from Monlath’s inner weyr. The dragon herself lounged behind him, her green bulk protecting the riders inside from any surprise intruders. Greenriders of all ages lounged around the weyr, mostly on cushions they’d brought with them. Five crammed together familiarly on the bed. N’bast and L’colm had forgotten cushions, and fluffed up G’nes’s laundry pile before flopping down on it with Om'riel between them.

“Which story, which story…” G’nes muttered, tapping his lip as he paced. He and Monlath were clutchmates with L’deni and Ledbuth, and, according to the Old Aunties, he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Fortunately G’nes had a fantastic memory for stories, and, as many of the greenriders’ secrets were held in stories rather than song, this made him an excellent historian. “It’s harder to spill a secret you can’t hum,” Zalinna had quipped.

“Can it be a story about the spirits?” Om'riel asked. G’nes paused mid-pace, one foot still up in the air. Everyone turned to look at Om’riel, and on either side, N’bast and L’colm flushed. Om'riel must’ve realized he might have gotten his friends in trouble again, and hastily added. “They didn’t tell me names! Or, or _how_ they protect us. Just that three spirits _do_ protect us.”

G’nes clapped his hands together, foot coming down finally. “Yes! Yes perfect. Thank you Om'riel, this is the most important story.”

“All the stories are the most important story,” half the weyr called out, laughing.

“And the most secret,” G’nes went on.

“So don’t tell anyone who’s not green!” the other half of the weyr added.

“Especially the bronze and brownriders,” L’deni cautioned from the bed. “The blues have their own spirits and won’t pry if you slip up, but…”

“Like how we’ve got the Ghost?” P’gyo murmured sleepily.

 _“Had_ the Ghost,” N’ris said. “It can’t trick anyone who’s got a dragon, and it doesn’t need to help us either.”

“Oh,” P’gyo said, and yawned. “That makes sense.”

“Now, how long ago was this?” G’nes said, tapping his chin, voice easing out of the conversational tone and into a recitational one. “Was it many Passes ago, when women rode jewels?”

“No, longer!” someone called.

“Oh! Was it before anyone rode anything, and we’d only just befriended the firelizards?”

“No, longer!”

“Ah…” G’nes sighed happily. “Then it must be at the very Dawn of All Things, before Thread came to Pern.”

The weyrlings looked at each other in surprise. They knew from the Landing Ballad so carefully passed down from harper to harper that humanity first came to Pern at the end of an Interval, and concluded Thread must be an interloper as well, for what life could have evolved under such an onslaught? But this was the first story they’d heard set in that before-time.

“Before Thread came to Pern,” G’nes repeated. “Life teemed in the oceans, the lands, and the skies. Plants we can never taste, creatures we can never meet. And on this Pern, this Pern which was lost to us, on a warm, vibrant beach, there lay a clutch of firelizard eggs, delicate, fragile, vulnerable. And at the very center of the clutch was a single golden egg.”

G’nes cupped his hands together, forming an egg shape, and slowly drew them apart, still cupped, to indicate it growing. “This egg was deeper gold than any we’ve known, and though smaller than a dragon’s egg, far larger than most firelizards. And one day, a day just as warm as the beach sands, it hatched.” G’nes flung his hands apart, grinning at everyone. “The smallest firelizard there ever was and ever will be hatched from that golden egg, and she was green! As green as every leaf in the jungle, and the emerald currents in the ocean, and the dancing northern lights.”

“Like all greens, she hatched curious, and began exploring. She met her clutchmates, and loved them. She felt the sand under her claws, and loved it. She drank the ocean, tasted the sky, rolled across ferns, wrapped herself around trees, and danced in the rain. Everything she found, she loved. She was so small though, and her egg had been so big, that the love inside her didn’t fit. A clutchmate could play with a pebble for a while, having fun, but when she picked the pebble up and delighted over it, her clutchmate felt that love too, seeing the beauty they hadn’t noticed before, feeling how wonderfully it fit between their claws. Thus it went with everything she touched, and so she was called the Lover.”

“Aye,” one of the riders wedged onto the bed with L’deni called out softly. “And how does she help us?”

“We’ll get to that later,” G’nes said. The other rider nodded, settling back down. “The Lover had two great friends, or perhaps sisters, or perhaps daughters. The Berserker hatched early, too energetic to stay in her shell. While she was just as curious about the world, and loved some things, she did not love _all_ things, and would fight anything that tried to stop her flight, _especially_ suitors. The Lover could have as many as she pleased when her blood raced hot, but the Berserker rose only to revel in her own skill.”

Dragons going berserk and fighting their suitors, or other dragons for any reason, happened in a few of the grimmest, least realistic winter-fire stories. Junpei had hated those stories as a kid, the blood and death, and now J’pei flinched at the thought of firelizards fighting too. It wasn’t a surprise there’d be stories like that, but...

It _was_ a surprise G’nes voiced the idea without a single hint of menace or dread. With _pride._ As though a rising green refusing to take a mate was natural and admirable. J’pei eased out of his flinch. Next to him, P’gyo relaxed too, having tensed when J’pei did.

“Now the Little Sibling…” G’nes sighed again, and ran his hand through his hair. “Are they the eldest? The youngest? Neither hatchlings nor greyhides rise to mate, and the blood of the Little Sibling never, ever races. They comfort the Lover when the world is harsh, they heal the wounds the Berserker gains. The Little Sibling discovered numbweed, and klah, and everything soothing.”

Ch’joh hummed thoughtfully at this, and glanced over at J’pei. G’nes trailed off, his own gaze focusing for a thoughtful moment on K’tis. Then he shrugged and continued. “The Lover, the Berserker, the Little Sibling, and all the first firelizards had many adventures in the Dawn of All Things, before time could touch them. But Dawn cannot blaze forever.”

“Thread came."

“Thread killed.”

Monlath rumbled sadly. G’nes stepped back until he could lean against her. He had to pitch his voice louder to carry his words to those at the very back of the weyr, but no one suggested he step closer again.

“Dragonmen must fly, when Thread is in the sky. But Pern had no dragonmen then. Pern did not even have dragons. Pern had firelizards, whose hearts were as true as dragons, and they chewed and flew and flamed and defended their home for countless Passes. But though they were many, they were small. They had no one to break firestone for them, or tend their wounds, or protect their eggs.”

 _“When wherries attacked me, I cried out, and you fought them off,_ the Lover told the Berserker. _When my wounds ached me, I cried out, and you numbed me,_ the Berserker told the Little Sibling. _When I was lonely, I cried out, and you cheered me,_ the Little Sibling told the Lover. _We must cry out,_ they decided together. So the three green firelizards flew together, keening as their clutchmates fell to Thread, past the tops of the trees. Then the mountains. Then the clouds. Then the very sky itself.”

“They cried out, and humanity heard. Humanity came to Pern, to help, and we are still here, defending our home. And the light of the three green firelizards’ flight hangs above the sky still.”

G’nes slowly sank down to sit on the floor, his fingers laced together in front of his knees, his back pressed against Monlath. “That’s the story of the Dawn Sisters, who brought humanity to Pern.”

A quiet murmur rose at these closing words. J’pei heard a few older riders from F’lar’s wing say their favorite version had the Dawn Sisters catch an updraft on an erupting volcano on the Southern Continent, which _might_ have one day become the first Weyr. That couldn’t be right, though. _Fort_ was the first Weyr.

“Are they still up there with their light?” Om'riel asked. N’bast and L’colm went “Ooooh,” softly, impressed by the question.

“They could be,” L’deni answered. “They need to watch us from _somewhere.”_

“Spirits don’t need to see people to watch them,” D’rees said. He was in F’lar’s wing too, the youngest greenrider in it at twenty-six. “But I _like_ to think they’re up there too, you know, while they’re running around here at the same time.”

N’bast shared a look with L’colm at this, and wriggled excitedly, shaking the pile of laundry.

“Down here?” Om'riel echoed.

“Everywhere!” N’bast exclaimed, flinging his hands into the air. “So they can help! They bless people, and influence them, and sometimes get born as firelizards or dragons or riders, or maybe even nonriders!”

A surprised murmur swept through the crowd at this last comment.

“The bond between rider and dragon was one of the first gifts the Lover gave humanity,” G’nes said, tilting his head from side to side to rub an itch on Monlath’s hide without unlacing his fingers from his knees. His voice drew attention away from N’bast again. “During a mating flight, we all experience what she did, love so overflowing it can’t be contained in one body. She can’t stop something hurting, but she can amplify our joy.”

“And the Berserker lends you strength and speed to defend yourself from unwanted suitors,” L’deni said. “The Old Aunties told me, when I Impressed Ledbuth, that a greenrider in his tenth decade when _they_ Impressed, said his mentor had been touched by the Berserker. When his dragon rose to mate, instead of being drawn to her suitors, he was filled with her energy and ran laps around the lake, tumbling when she spun and jumping when she dove, and struck anyone who tried to lay hands on him.”

“What’d the Weyrleader do to him for fighting?” Ch’joh asked sharply.

“Officially, nothing,” L’deni said. “He didn’t remember any more of his human actions during the chase than the rest of us do, and kept running after the catch. If they gave him punishment duties, then they’d have to do the same for b-riders leaving bruises, wouldn’t they? All they could do was leave him as last-chosen during wing-formation, and insult his maturity. Claim he was too childish for any responsibilities, like they do with anyone who eschews the privacy chamber or asks for a stand-in past their weyrling days.”

J’pei bit the inside of his cheek. What was so immature about knowing your limits?

“The fuck is immature about refusing to fuck randomly?” Ch’joh asked, echoing J’pei’s thoughts aloud. “And the Auntie’s friends’ mentor wasn’t even choosing, it sounds like, just feeling the bond differently.”

L’deni shrugged, and only answered Ch’joh’s first question. “The closer the riders mirror their dragons’ actions during a flight, the better it is for the dragons, the less chance of disconnect, the easier it is to guide them home after. The dragons’ needs come first.”

“The Little Sibling might slow the growth of hatchlings with very young riders,” someone sitting by the door to G’nes’s tiny watercloset said speculatively. Several people looked at P’gyo, who was now fast asleep and drooling on J’pei’s sleeve. “To lower the risk of the dragon rising before the rider is ready. But we’re not sure. There might be something else causing that common coincidence.”

“Benden has a Little Sibling touched girl!” N’bast burst out, jumping to his feet, unable to contain his excitement any longer. P’gyo jerked awake. “Our friend Anjali! She doesn’t feel the mating flights! She doesn’t feel them at _all!”_

“She might be more than touched,” L’colm added, much more quietly. “She’s a healer.”

“I _still_ don’t understand how a nice girl like her’s weyrmated to that blockhead S’ten,” L’deni said, rolling his eyes.

“He’s good at pretending to listen, and making you feel special,” J’pei said. Now everyone turned to look at _him_ in confusion; S’ten was one of the brownriders that not only preferred women, but left the privacy chamber as soon as the dragons returned home, rather than remaining to nap or cuddle. A weyrling shouldn’t have any idea what he was like in a relationship. Could he explain this without embarrassing Gullers? Shells. “My sister was close to Anjali’s age when he sweet-talked her.”

One of the riders on the bed, M’kel, smacked his forehead. “Ah! _That’s_ whose weyr Daleth ferried Gullers down from! That must have been before he was your father’s wingsecond.”

“No,” J’pei said, sighing through the reminder of that old betrayal. He felt Surugath stirring at the back of his mind, feeling his agitation, and took a deep breath in through his nose. “S’ten claimed he genuinely forgot Gullers was asleep in his bed when he took off on patrol. He apologized to her. In front of our father. For _focusing on his own duties so strongly that he kept her from hers.”_ Surugath woke up and sent a wordless feeling of concern. _I’m all right, I’m sorry I woke you._

 _Bite. Biting. I bite him?_ Surugath sent not words, but the sensation of her teeth sinking into meat, and sense of confusion over who he was mad at. _Who is mean?_

 _No one needs biting now, Surugath,_ J’pei told her.

“Ugh,” M’kel said. “Showing off his diligence to his wingleader instead of really saying sorry. What a jerk.”

J’pei shrugged slightly. Gullers had refused to have anything to do with S’ten, after that. Did it really matter that their father accepted such a self-aggrandizing excuse?

“It was the Whispering Ghost who got Daleth for your sister, right?” P’gyo asked. He yawned, then blinked at J’pei. “Right?”

 _“Someone_ carried her shouts to a dragon,” J’pei said. “And no one else was up there but Gullers and the Ghost.”

P’gyo nodded, mumbling, “That makes sense.” Then he almost nodded himself all the way to the floor. J’pei caught him before he could faceplant.

“I think we’d better get back to the barracks,” J’pei said, and just like that, everyone was packing up their craftwork and cushions and G’nes was urging Monlath to curl up out of the way of the exit.

“Good story,” Ch’joh said, when the older riders set them down gently on the grass near the barracks, and flew off to their own weyrs. L’deni had to carefully slide P’gyo down Ledbuth’s side into J’pei’s arms, and N’ris and K’tis stumbled into each other when dismounting Daleth.

“Mm,” J’pei agreed with a nod. After making sure everyone else was settled into their bunks and the other weyrlings were still asleep (an older green had stayed outside the barracks in case any of them woke and needed something during the meeting), he curled up around Surugath on her pallet.

Three spirits, one who brought joy to the mating flights, who enjoyed them. One that rose but refused to be caught. One that never rose at all. And a rider who refused to be caught too, not just a story but someone who lived to meet a dragonrider that knew the Aunties.

 _They left him as last-chosen during wing formation and insulted his maturity._ J’pei shuddered. He didn’t want that. Those couldn’t be the only choices, could they? Do what the rest of the Weyr expected, or get pushed aside?

J’pei curled up tighter around Surugath, and fell asleep trying to untangle it all.


	12. Ruatha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Late Winter, Spring

Ch’joh spent a few sevendays after Surugath tackled Gullers being the most obnoxious, untrainable brat he could be. He ‘forgot’ teaching ballad lyrics and made up his own verses. He convinced Namith to never stretch the correct limb (they  _ did _ do all the exercises, just not in the order C’gan told them to). He stopped coaxing her back on track when she got distracted. They distracted the other weyrlings on purpose. He dragged his heels going anywhere and encouraged Namith to go on little side excursions.

It really only took  _ one _ sevenday of that for C’gan to stop sighing over J’pei being “as flighty as the rest” and grumbling that “I thought better of you.” Another half sevenday to go back to treating J’pei as an assistant teacher.

Then Ch’joh and Namith kept it up because it was  _ funny. _

What got Ch’joh a huge, blinding smile of thanks wasn’t any of that. It was observing the dining cavern that whole time, then bithley informing J’pei that the table three to the left of the main Bowl entrance had a draft blowing over it, making it unpopular, and therefore if they  _ always _ sat there their Lower Caverns worker friends would be able to  _ find _ them easily, on days their schedules matched up.

_ It’s really not fair for you to smile like that and I  _ still _ can’t figure you out, _ Ch’joh thought, watching J’pei talk in hand-sign with Gullers and Rishall about Surugath’s progress at the other end of the table. Learning so many greenrider secrets made it clear the rest of the Weyr’s assumptions couldn’t be trusted. Ch’joh was going to have to start from scratch all over again, figuring this place out. Figuring his friend out. 

“Everyone” said greenriders were men who liked (and  _ only _ liked) other men. Which would mean J’pei was the same as Ch’joh. Esme said herself that J’pei’d never made time with any girls. But Zalinna was a woman, so there went the whole “greenriders are all men” thing. If that was wrong, what else was?

Two of the Traders Ch’joh used to travel with weren’t interested in anyone at all, not men or women or anyone else. From the way K’tis talked, he sounded the same. J’pei...might be. He might not be. He kept everything so damn close to the chest, he could have raging crushes on hundreds of people and  _ no one would ever know. _

But that. Um. Might just be wishful thinking on Ch’joh’s part. Because J’pei’s little sideways quirk of a smile when he tried not to laugh looked so damned kissable, and now Ch’joh knew when he was really, truly, gratefully happy he smiled like the  _ fucking sun. _ And he had those  _ arms... _ which Ch’joh was not thinking about because Namith was too young for that kind of feedback.

Ch’joh  _ could _ think about leaning comfortably against D’nis, getting affectionate kisses pressed to the side of his temple. Think about, and do. The stable seating in the dining cavern meant D’nis could find Ch’joh easily, patrol and training schedule permitting. It was nice. Someone to lean on and wrap himself around while Namith was stuck outside, that had been through all the same strangeness of being a new dragonrider Turns ago. After hours of C’gan bemoaning their “featherheaded fecklessness” (even when they misbehaved on purpose, it still stung) it was a relief to talk to someone who didn’t think his questions were stupid. Like he was simply another adult new to a shared craft.

Really, R’gul ought to ask the Harper Hall for some journeymen teachers. C’gan might be a better Weyrlingmaster if he weren’t trying to be Weyrsinger at the same time.

Surprisingly, Earl showed up consistently at their drafty dining table too. He hadn’t bothered sneaking out to visit them, and Ch’joh expected him to enjoy being the oldest weyrbred boy left, bossing around the younger ones and eventually any new fosterlings. According to Esme, though, Earl eschewed his peers in favor of hounding adults for practical skills like herdbeast husbandry, plant lore, and advanced cooking. He’d even gotten Rishall to teach him to  _ ride _ herdbeasts, a frowned-upon pastime he’d disdained as “smelly and pointless” before.

Well. Maybe it  _ shouldn’t _ have been a surprise that he slouched down onto the bench across from Ch’joh one early breakfast and said, “Teach me to pass as a holder.”

“What.” Namith had woken before the sun that day and demanded breakfast while the other weyrlings peacefully snoozed on. Gore the washcloth had missed was drying under Ch’joh nails and in his hair as he ate, and the klah was not  _ nearly _ strong enough for this conversation.

“Nemorth’s not rising again before I age out,” Earl said, leaning forward. “You know it, I know it, everyone knows it.”

“Don’t golds start rising more often in the decade before a Pass?” Ch’joh asked. Things like that came up in the sleepless hours of the night, wondering what future awaited them all once their weyrling days were through.

“Nemorth won’t,” Earl repeated. “And don’t give me the bunk about any Hold or Craft Hall being honored to take in dragonrider blood. I’m just an extra mouth to feed and we all know that too.”

“Why do you care about passing?” Ch’joh asked, refilling his klah from the pitcher, and mixing in sweetener from the little jar he’d filched off the serving table. “Learn a craft and you’ll be useful.”

“A feeling,” Earl said. He tried to swipe a sausage off Ch’joh’s plate and got a smack across the knuckles for it. “And I don’t know what craft to learn anyway.”

“A feeling like what helps you win all those bets?” Earl nodded. “Fine. I’m not losing free time for you, so just...keep showing up here. You’ve been to Benden for Gathers, right?” Another nod. “Good. If you wind up somewhere else, you can say you're from there. First lesson, no more pat-sib and mat-sib and not having a dad at all. He can be dead if you want, but you had one, and he was married to your mom, and if Enid and Esme are half-sibs instead of full-sibs it better be because their dad died and your mom re-married. Got it?”

“Charter doesn’t limit spouses at a time,” Earl said, frowning.

“Charter doesn’t forbid dragonriders marrying at all, either, but it’s still not done, is it?”

“Oh.” Earl blinked for a moment, and then brought Ch’joh more klah.

Earl joined all of Ch’joh’s meals after that, whether he had chores or not. The adults seemed to feel sorry for him not Impressing, and let him get away with shirking tasks for now. “They won’t let me once the Spring Game start,” he predicated with a shrug, and asked about crop rotation.

All of which meant his absence one lunch in Third Month stood out.

“Earl?” Felena said, when Ch’joh snagged her elbow as she passed by with a bundle of laundry. All the other weyrlings listened in; C’gan had dismissed them early enough to get to lunch before the rush, and none of the little ones had left for afternoon lessons yet. “Off with Olivia. Took some kind of fright an hour or so ago, crying like a little kid, and then the poor thing ran over to the drain and vomited.”

“Ew,” Om'riel said.

“Thanks, Felena,” Ch’joh said, and let her get back to work. 

He couldn’t shake a feeling of unease over what she’d said. No, not unease. Fear? Dread, dread that squeezed his chest, held him fast, kept him from moving more than a turn of his head to see the rest of the weyrlings looking just as petrified.

N’ris and K’tis stopped pinching from each other’s plates, grabbing each other’s shoulders tight, instead. Om'riel rocked back and forth, staring unseeing at the table. The youngest clung to each other, and then P’gyo burst into tears, wailing, and J’pei—

J’pei didn’t do anything about it. He, too, was crying, but silently, staring unseeing like Om'riel. The fear and dread rose and rose and rose and—

Broke.

Gone.

Suddenly all Ch’joh felt was confusion. J’pei shoved off the bench to pick P’gyo up and rock him, murmuring soothingly as the wail abruptly turned into hiccups and then quiet, shaky breaths. N’ris and K’tis let go, talking in rapid hand-sign that Ch’joh couldn’t follow but was pretty sure meant “what the fuck was that?”

No one else in the dining cavern seemed to have felt it. No one else was crying, or looking confused, though a few glanced over at P’gyo’s noise. Ch’joh snatched a cheese-filled breadroll off the table, shoving it into his pocket out of habit, and headed for the retired weyrfolk’s cavern.

The Aunties sat in their usual corner, Q’cheten knitting, X’toq critiquing his work, and Zalinna napping in her chair. X’toq nudged her awake when he noticed Ch’joh approaching.

“Something weird as hell just happened,” Ch’joh blurted out. He described how they’d all been overcome by the strange fear, seemingly from nowhere (unlike the times they and their dragons had heightened each others’ emotions), and how quickly it vanished.

“Ah,” Zalinna said, once Ch’joh stuttered to a stop, feeling like there was more to say but unsure of what more there could be. “That’s rare. An emotion storm.”

“A  _ what.” _

“We’re not sure what causes them,” X’toq said, slowly scratching a jowl. “But it only seems to happen to weyrlings, and only in the first Turn.”

“Hatchlings are very, very open,” Zalinna said. “So you are too, and it’s very easy to spill over into your clutchmates.”

“That wasn’t any of ours,” Ch’joh said. He frowned. “I don’t  _ think _ it was ours.” Some of them had been getting worried about the future, as training got harder and C’gan talked about their future wingrider duties more. And he hadn’t been  _ that _ worried about Earl taking ill.

Wait.

“If you knew where it came from, it would be a feedback loop, not a storm,” X’toq explained. “As Zalinna said, they’re rare. Few clutches experience them.”

“Earl felt it too,” Ch’joh said, still frowning. “An hour before us.”

“Peculiar,” Q’cheten murmured.

Earl himself had no explanation at dinner. “Yeah, it felt like a premonition,” Earl said, dark bags under his eyes, cutting up his food with more force than normal. “But I didn’t  _ get _ anything from it. It just sucked. It better not happen again.”

~

_ Wake up! _

J’pei sat bolt upright on his bunk. Namith let go of his foot and leapt over Surugath’s pallet to Ch’joh’s bunk, illuminated faintly by the distant glowbasket hanging over by the door to the water-closet. Surugath burbled into wakefulness with J’pei, rubbing at her eyelids with her wing-joints.

“Ffckoff...y’gotyrbribe’rdy...ffffck _ off.” _

Ch’joh himself lay tangled in a blanket on the floor between both dragons’ pallets, legs and arms curled up tight, shoulders hunched in his sleep. He suddenly kicked out one leg, mumbles turning into a shout. “FUCK off!”

That couldn’t be good. J’pei swung his legs off the bed, glancing around to see if anyone else had woken. They’d all been so disturbed by the strange rush of emotion at lunch that he’d talked C’gan into letting them run around outside all afternoon, exhausting themselves, instead of sitting through more lessons they couldn’t focus on. It looked like it had worked.

On the floor, Ch’joh muttered another curse. This hadn’t happened before. He’d never talked in his sleep, or kicked, back in the dormitory. He’d woken up swinging a fist a few times, but since he always managed to roll onto the floor without whacking his hand on the bunk above him, it hadn’t been a problem.

Maybe exhausting themselves instead of doing something calming hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

_ Fix it! _ Namith whined in J’pei’s head, distress and confusion coming through stronger than the words.

“Sh,” J’pei said out of habit, sending back the soothing feelings he usually gave Suragath. Tried pushing them towards Ch’joh, too, but with no idea if that would do anything. With the blanket tangled so, he couldn’t tell if Ch’joh still wore his belt-knife to bed or not. “Ch’joh?” No response but another kick. “...Chojohrnen?” Nothing.  _ Surugath, can you…? _

Surugath chirped an affirmative to J’pei’s idea, snaked her head forward, grasped the nearest piece of blanket firmly in her teeth, and jerked up. Ch’joh rolled out of the blanket with a shout, flailing, and landed on one foot and one knee, hand going to where his belt-knife would normally be but thankfully wasn’t. J’pei said his old name again, holding his hands up. Ch’joh peered at him in the faint glow-light. “Is it time to go, Geroln?”

“Not Geroln,” J’pei said, worried. “And no, we’re nowhere near breakfast.”

“Shit.” Ch’joh fell to both knees, then sat with a  _ thump. _ “Sorry, Junpei. Where the fuck are we?”

“The weyrlings barracks.”

Namith chirped, wriggling off the bunk to drape herself over her rider. Ch’joh made a heart-wrenching sound of relief and flung his arms around her, burying his face against her neck. “You’re real,” he gasped out. “You’re real, oh thank the Rains you’re  _ real.” _

J’pei slid from his own bunk to hold Surugath, who’d been too big to fit on his lap for months and didn’t let that stop her. She spat out the blanket and started humming, low enough he felt it more than heard it. They watched the other green pair quietly until Ch’joh’s murmurs went inaudible, and then J’pei asked, “Has this happened before?”

“What?” Ch’joh lifted his head from Namith, blinking.

“Thinking you’re somewhere else, with someone else.”

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said. “Most mornings in the dorm, I’d wake up thinking I was in my old wagon. Why I didn’t usually talk before breakfast. Can’t say anything wrong if you don’t say anything at all.” He stroked a hand down Namith’s neck. “It stopped after we Impressed. I always know where I am with Namith.”

“You said something this time,” J’pei said. “Never heard you sleep-talk before.”

“...what’d I say?”

“ ‘Fuck off’ and...it sounded like something about a bribe?”

“Oh.” Ch’joh was silent for a long moment. “Geroln was who made sure everyone got back to the wagons when we were leaving a Gather.” He scratched around Namith’s head-knobs, silent for an even longer moment, and then just sighed deeply.

“Namith woke me up,” J’pei said. Not talking at all was always more worrying than sideways answers and sarcasm, with Ch’joh. He knew J’pei would listen, if he wanted to talk about it. Right now, it seemed better to make sure he knew  _ Namith _ would always be here for him too.

“Yeah?” Ch’joh kissed her eye ridge. “Clever dragon.”

_ Cleverest, _ Namith said sleepily, and Surugath’s humming burbled into laughter.

~

Fourth Month exhausted everyone. With the Spring Games scheduled to start at the end of it this Turn, all the wingleaders crammed in extra practices. The Lower Caverns work increased. Meanwhile, the greenriders stashed wineskins and long-lasting foods in their weyrs, anticipating the secret post-Games festival that the old weyrbrat gossip had been half right about after all.

“Oh, it’s not us all getting fed up and saying  _ fuck it,” _ L’deni explained with a grin when Ch’joh asked about that annual mass disappearance. “It’s a planned party, when our wingleaders and seconds are too wiped out to bother investigating. Two planned parties; the blues have their own, and we don’t tell each other where. And there’s a fair sight more dancing and singing than there is making out with trees, being in a meadow valley, but I can’t say that  _ doesn’t _ happen. None of you lot can go until you’re over sixteen and  _ between’ing _ reliably though, so don’t worry about it right now.”

_ I want to see a tree, _ Namith grumbled, and Ch’joh spent an hour reminiscing about forests he’d travelled through before coming to Benden, sharing the better memories with her.

Then the Gather safety scouts got back, dragging his worst memories with them.

“Word’s reached Telgar,” bluerider K'sawa said. Next to him, L’deni stared at nothing, eerily silent. Half their wing had slumped into seats at the same table as the older weyrlings and their Lower Caverns friends at dinner, looking exhausted. “Fax has taken another Hold.”

“No!” Ch’joh jumped to his feet, hands slamming on the table. J’pei reached over to move the cutlery away. “No, no he  _ can’t—” _

“He did,” K'sawa said wearily. “Last month. Dawn. Killed the Lord Holder’s family—”

“No, no,  _ no—” _

“—laughed when the nearest Lords confronted him. Now the Crafthall Masters have recalled all their under-masters from—”

“Ruatha,” Earl said. He sat at the end of the table, pale and tense. “That’s what I felt. It was Ruatha.”

Ch’joh scrambled back from the table until he hit the stone wall of the cavern, fingers digging into his scalp. Namith shrieked from the Bowl. “No, no, I  _ took _ people to Ruatha, it was  _ safe, _ I smuggled people  _ out _ of High Reaches and Nabol and Crom and—”

“And we can smuggle people back out,” J’pei said, already on his feet too, standing between Ch’joh and everyone else and not stupid enough to try and touch him.

“It’s been a  _ month,” _ Ch’joh snapped. If he’d had anything in his hands he would have thrown it. “He’s already killed an entire family, do you  _ know what he can do in a MONTH—” _

“No, I don’t, but what I know doesn’t matter,” J’pei said, low and firm and urgent, a steady rock that Ch’joh was too frantic to reach for.

“The Weyrleader won’t let us help,” Earl said in a dead voice. “Can’t endanger dragons by endangering their riders.”

“Is that another  _ fucking _ premonition?” Ch’joh snarled.

“Does it matter?” Earl echoed.

“Lad,” K'sawa said, which made Ch’joh snarl and Namith shriek again, but that didn’t deter him. “We’ve  _ been _ helping.”

“How in the  _ seven sharding hells _ have you been  _ helping _ by not setting foot on the Western Claw since  _ fucking F’lon _ died—”

“Namith says they’ve helped,” J’pei said.

“...what?”

“Namith says they’ve helped,” J’pei repeated.

Ch’joh reached out to his dragon. Namith sent back a flood of images and sensation, older dragon’s memories, the rush of sneaking out during mating flights, the eeriness of the empty Weyrs, the novelty of having half-dozens of passengers on their backs at once.

“...Geroln’s contacts,” Ch’joh said, the borrowed memories sliding into place in an old mystery, the key for a lock he’d always been too busy to pick. “The ones who wouldn’t go near the main roads and told us to send folk in need to the old Weyrs and mountain lakes.” Through Namith he heard an echo of other dragons talking to their riders, gliding down to the Bowl, asking each other about the places they’d visited in the past that their riders were now thinking  _ very loudly _ about. Ch’joh stood up, not sure when he’d sat down.

"Is that the trader M’kel always talked to?” K'sawa asked.

“You don’t know where everyone is,” Ch’joh said, barely hearing the question, still tuned into the echo from Namith. “You only know some of them…we’ll show you, we’ll show you Ruatha.” Ch’joh turned and shoved through the crowd to the entrance, not waiting for K’sawa’s response. He needed to get outside, get to Namith, they couldn’t go  _ between _ they couldn’t even fly, but they could share. Every little cot-hold, every craft hall far from the main Holds, every kind Ruathan family that had taken people in. All the places  _ he _ had been that the other riders  _ hadn’t. _ Namith could share that.

J’pei followed him.

“Do you  _ know,” _ Ch’joh choked out. When had he started crying? “How many crafters I took to Ruatha to escape forced labor when they couldn’t meet the tithes? How many farmgirls the bullyboys wanted for themselves? How many—”

“No, I don’t,” J’pei said again. “What I know is that I’m here, and you’re here, and whatever you need me to do right now I’ll do.”

“I—” Namith and Surugath met them at the edge of the herb garden. Namith twined around Ch’joh, keening very, very quietly until he knelt down and wrapped his arms around her, and she curled around him on the grass. “I need you to keep anyone from distracting us while we give directions to everyone who’ll listen.”

Surugath curled up around Namith. Ch’joh heard the murmur of approaching voices, and felt Namith talking to other dragons. He reached inside himself for the view coming down the cliff road towards the Ruathan farmhold that had taken in Serrach of Nabol, who’d been so scared the whole journey.

Later, Ch’joh would learn that brownrider P’trikor tried to talk the Weyrleader into openly helping, and when that didn’t work, started an argument with a wingleader to keep them all distracted. That retired rider R’len had been volunteering for the watch-pair with his blue Lamath and pretended not to see everyone sneaking out. That herbalist Olivia sternly told M’kel that if the Healer Hall needed extra supplies he was to come straight to her, while Anjali worked through the night processing short-brew salves.

At some awful hour between midnight and dawn, Ch’joh ran out of places to send rescuers, and blinked back into the present. Spring nights in the mountains were not warm, but Ch’joh and Namith had been unmovable. At some point he’d gone from kneeling with his arms around Namith, to half-laying in J’pei’s lap, a thick wool blanket wrapped around both of them, Namith curled up tight with her nose wedged under Ch’joh’s arm, and Surugath guarding them all.

The blanket was horribly itchy. All of his limbs protested staying still for so long. Some garden herb or Bowl wildflower nearby did  _ not _ have a nice odor. And he absolutely did not want to move at all. Maybe Nana had been right about him being a horrible person, because instead of pride at helping or concern over what he couldn’t do, all Ch’joh felt right in this moment was sheer frustration that apparently J’pei had been cuddling him for  _ hours _ and he’d been too out of it to  _ notice. _

“I can’t think of any more,” Ch’joh told Namith and J’pei, and ah,  _ there _ was the misery over Ruatha crashing back over him. “It feels like there’s more but I can’t think of them.”

J’pei got the two of them to their feet and aimed towards the dining cavern. Ch’joh’s legs were not so asleep that he needed help walking, but he clung to J’pei anyway.

“Klah,” J’pei said. “Then sleep.”

As they walked, Namith passed along all the news from older dragons they hadn’t been able to listen to while concentrating so hard on remembering and giving directions. A good third of the people they meant to help had already fled. Some cursed the dragonriders for not coming sooner. Others passed along word of even more people to evacuate.

“It’s going to get worse,” Ch’joh said, getting a travel-horn of klah to take back to the barracks, refusing to spend more time away from Namith’s side than he had to. “They’ll find new people to bully. He’ll tithe Ruatha dry like everywhere else. And then what? He takes another Hold? And another?”

“Maybe he’ll just die,” J’pei said bluntly. Ch’joh choked on laughter, staggering back out of the dining cavern into the night.

~

For once, the Spring Games came as a relief. C’gan declared that the nearly empty Bowl was the perfect chance to put all their wing-exercises into practice. J’pei lost all his composure running over the grass, whooping in joy, as Surugath launched from a mid-level weyr and glided all the way to the lake.

Even Ch’joh, who’d been in a foul mood since they learned of Ruatha, smiled and laughed again when Namith managed to flap her wings  _ just right _ to get more height in her glide.

The downside was that they were back to hardly seeing J’pei’s sisters and other friends at all, every Lower Caverns worker busy with the Games. In the last sevenday, J’pei had to tackle Surugath  _ twice _ to stop her knocking over first Esme and then Anjali. Rishall, caring for the herdbeasts, still saw all the weyrlings regularly, even if they only had time for a brief hello before getting to the messy business of feeding young dragons. They’d just started killing their own wherries, but still needed help with herdbeasts.

“They’ll be carrying you all before the summer’s out,” C’gan told them all proudly, the day Q’resh’s blue Mianath made a full loop of the Bowl without needing to re-launch. “Maybe even  _ between’ing _ by Turn’s End.”

The weyrlings hardly noticed the Games chatter that spring, wrapped up in their own training. Sh’xsa’s wing won? F’lar’s came in second? Who cared, tiny P’gyo’s green Onth figuring out she could climb to a higher weyr than everyone else and bounce off someone to gain more air was  _ way _ more interesting.

They  _ did _ notice the sudden return of their audience after the Games ended. No longer drilling between patrols, the more curious of the older dragons began watching morning training again, and helping out with afternoon practice. Some even let the weyrlings hold onto their tails as they flew high above the Weyr. Om'riel ran in a tight circle, shrieking with laughter, when Reeth let go just below a cloudbank to spiral faster than any of them ever had before and splashed right into the lake.

Om'riel was still dizzy when they stumbled into dinner, tripping over his tongue as he tried to tell Tinall about it, taking so long to get words to line up that Manora dismissed Tinall from serving duty with a sigh. “Might as well take your dinner now and hear all about it,” Manora told her, and Tinall ducked under the long serving table to join her friend.

“And then it was like, like in the river, right, when the water goes around a rock? So it’s still all going one way, but it’s hitting you from two ways. But more than two! Because, because you’re in the  _ air _ , and not just, not just climbing all the way to the top of the caldera, where it’s so super windy, remember when we almost fell off? That was scary. But this was cool! It wasn’t scary at all! Okay, and then Reeth, she says, she could see  _ so far, _ and…”

J’pei listened intently, passing it all along to Surugath, who’d whined that Reeth went to sleep before telling the rest of them about it. He glanced around the dining cavern as he and Ch’joh made their way to the usual table, taking seats along the wall. N’bast and L’colm must have been out on patrol, because Om'riel and Tinall came along too, Tinall taking a wall seat and Om'riel sitting across so he could start gesturing once he put his tray down.

“Remember when we went spider-claw picking? And Earl found that cliff, the one Luceel said was safe enough to jump from, and we  _ did? _ It wasn’t like that at all, but  _ it _ was, and aaaaah I don’t know how—”

_ “J’pei!” _

Everyone looked up at Esme weaving quickly between other tables. Om'riel‘s illustrative gestures turned into a welcoming wave. J’pei notice Esme didn’t even have a plate or mug in her hand, and stood up just as she said, “Code Meathead!”

“Here,” J’pei said, stepping to the side. “Ch’joh, scoot over.” Eyebrows up questioningly, Ch’joh slid down the bench, and Tinall moved to the stool at the narrow end. Esme flung herself onto the middle of the wall-side bench, and J’pei hastily sat back down next to her, lifting an arm so Esme could plaster herself to his side. “This might not work now that I’m—”

“What a nice spot,” brownrider B’don said smoothly, swaggering over, tray in hand. What was he doing chasing Esme over here? Everyone Esme liked knew to let  _ her _ approach  _ them. _

Two other riders followed close behind B’don, laughing over some shared joke. Ugh, one of them was A’jellan. He’d been avoiding J’pei after their last run-in, seemingly spooked by how easily his wingmates went from laughing  _ with _ him to  _ at _ him when J’pei and Ch’joh “interpreted” his harassment as flirting.

B’don, A’jellan, and bluerider J’son swung their legs over the outside bench in tandem, a sign of all flying in the same wing together for so long. The sudden crowding made Om’riel freeze. J’pei wondered how much trouble he’d get in if he warned Om’riel through their dragons to move, and then kicked the bench over. He glared at A’jellan, who, just now realizing who Esme was cuddled up to, glared back.

“You have such excellent taste, Esme,” B'don said, planting one elbow on the table to gaze at her. He smiled broadly. “Winning taste.”

Oh. They were all in Sh’xsa’s wing; was B’don acting like this because they’d won the Spring Games this Turn? That explained the stupid swagger.

“I sure do,” Esme said, voice coming out in a purr, and wiggled a bit to squish even closer against J’pei. On her other side, Ch’joh’s eyebrows went even further up. Neither Om'riel or Tinall reacted, but the older riders all blinked in surprise. This wasn’t going to work long; A’jellan knew they were siblings, didn’t he? He’d tell his wingmates and the game would be up. “The absolute best taste,” Esme added. She snagged half a roast tuber off J’pei’s plate and popped it into her mouth.

J’son chuckled. “Some bright lass  _ you’re  _ after, B'don.” He chucked a breadroll at the wingsecond. “Can’t even read shoulder-knots.”

“Oh, I can,” Esme said, and stroked her hand across J’pei’s chest to the colored knots on the shoulder of his jacket. They marked him, very clearly, as a green weyrling from Benden. A’jellan rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. Did he...did he not  _ know? _ He’d been such an ass to all three of them when they were kids, ripping Rally’s character to shreds in front of them after he left until Gullers lost her temper and swung a fist or Esme started screeching. He had to know. Right?

“These,” Esme said, twining the knots between her fingers. “Tell me he’s got a long... _ interesting _ ...life ahead of him.” J’pei smiled slightly, passing Esme’s phrasing along to Surugath.

_ I AM so interesting! _ Surugath agreed proudly.

“He’s a green, sweetie,” B'don said condescendingly. J’pei could  _ feel _ the tension in Esme’s back as she restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. “He doesn’t like girls.”

“Some of the blues do,” Ch’joh pointed out.

“You’re holdbred, aren’t you?” A’jellan asked, finally speaking up. The intonation he put on  _ holdbred _ was the same he used to put on  _ gitar-plucking idiot. _

“Wow,” Ch’joh said dryly, before J’pei could snap. “You really are a winner, aren’t you?”

“I heard D’nis mention it, is all,” A’jellan said with a shrug. “Explains why you’re...ignorant. Blues might like girls, but greens  _ never _ do.”

“D’nis’s weyrmate?” B'don asked, suddenly interested. “See, Esme, your friend knows the benefits of becoming weyrmates with an older, more mature man.” His eyes flicked disdainfully across J’pei. “Not some closeted weyrling still pretending his dragon isn’t a silly green—”

“Surugath is the cleverest, most beautiful dragon in the world,” J’pei said evenly, smiling to show his teeth, every inch of control keeping himself from decking B’don. “Don’t  _ ever  _ imply I’m ashamed of her.”

The older riders froze, J’son’s hand half-raised to chuck another breadroll. Ch’joh’s hand slid slowly towards the bread-carving knife by his plate.

“Trust me, B'don,” Esme said, breaking the sudden tension. “I know  _ exactly _ how J’pei feels about me.” Tinall giggled, sharing a glance with Om'riel. Good. Let them feel good about being in on the joke, and not dwell on the insult B'don had just given J’pei. “And like I told you before, it’s not your age. I don’t do weyrs.”

“But weyrs have so much to offer,” B'don said, smirking broadly. “I’m sure your friend Ch’joh could tell you  _ all _ about it. You don’t want to keep fooling around in store rooms and back corridors your whole life.”

“It’s true, you don’t,” J’son said. A’jellan was the only one warily watching Ch’joh, whose hand was now firmly wrapped around the breadknife. “It’s fine while you’re young, but your joints won’t thank you later.” J’son suddenly slung an arm over Om'riel’s shoulders, making him squeak. “That’s why they keep so many cushions in the privacy chamber, you know...maybe I’ll show you when Reeth rises...”

“Let go of him,” J’pei said coldly, on his feet, Esme hastily leaning away to give him room. A’jellan stood too. So did Ch’joh, but then he relaxed with a grin. J’pei followed his line of sight to see D’nis striding over. All right. He could talk to them. Keep everyone here from breaking the rules about fighting.

“Settle down, weyrling,” B’don said, smirking, not even bothering to stand. Maybe he trusted A’jellan to get between him and that breadknife, which J’pei could have told him was a stupid bet. “We’re all friends here—”

D’nis yanked B'don’s arm behind his back and slammed his face against the table. J’son jumped away, knocking Om'riel off the bench.

“I can break your arm in five places long before Sh’xsa intervenes, if he even does,” D’nis said pleasantly, as Tinall helped Om'riel back to his feet. “That’s the problem with a wingleader that only cares how you do in the Games, and not what you do outside them.”

“Dragonmen don’t fight each other, D’nis,” A’jellan said, still on his feet, but not moving to help B'don. J’son kept a wary distance too. J’pei scanned the cavern; a few people had glanced over at the noise, but weren’t moving to intervene.

“We’re not fighting,” D’nis said. “We’re having a friendly chat. Now, Aldamth tells me Namith is  _ very _ upset that you’re trying to use  _ my _ relationship with Ch’joh to pressure this lovely young woman into gracing your weyr.” D’nis twisted B'don’s arm harder, earning a yelp of pain.  _ “How. Dare. You. _ Every single day Ch’joh  _ chooses _ to be with me is a gift, and if he ever tells me ‘no’,  _ I back off.” _

D’nis let go of B'don and stepped away, smiling lightly at all three riders from Sh’xsa’s wing. “I’d better not see any blues or browns from your wing chasing  _ any _ greens from this latest clutch without express permission from their riders.”

“You know the dragon decides and the rider complies, D’nis,” J’son said, shrugging, as A’jellan hustled B’don off to get numbweed.

“That’s true,” D’nis admitted, smiling more broadly. “And Aldamth can  _ decide _ to chase whichever green your dragons' eyes land on. Gets a bit clumsy when he’s excited, you know, knocking the other blues and browns out of the air.”

J’son winced, and hurried after his wingmates. J’pei and Ch’joh sat back down, J’pei putting his arm back around Esme, willing the adrenaline shakes to ease. D’nis watched until the intruders were gone, and sat down across from Ch’joh. His eyes fell on J’pei’s arm around Esme, and he chuckled. “Shells! Still doing that trick?”

“It works a lot better at Gathers,” Esme said, as J’pei sighed. She kept stealing food from his plate. “Honestly, it’s just sad that it worked so long here.”

Tinall took her stool back, dusting it off first, and Om'riel, who’d pressed himself against the wall, took the very end of the bench next to Ch’joh. Tinall scooted her stool closer and he pressed his forehead into her shoulder.

“Does _ no one _ here realize you’re siblings?” Ch’joh asked.

“Not without the eyebrows,” Esme said, shrugging.

“A’jellan should’ve,” J’pei said. “After all the grief he gave us over Rally—”

“Oh, he knows your mom fostered me,” Esme said, shrugging quickly, and stealing another tuber. “But that doesn’t count, to him, and he never figured out about our dads.” She reached up and patted J’pei’s arm. “He mostly harassed me because upsetting  _ me _ upset  _ you, _ and both of us punched less than Gullers.”

“I  _ know _ why there’s so many cushions,” Om'riel muttered, muffled by Tinall’s sleeve. “I hate when they talk like that. Like they know more than we do. I’ve been here since I was  _ nine. _ I grew  _ up _ here.”

“Tell me about it,” Esme said, and reached past Ch’joh to ruffle his hair.


	13. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495, Summer.

“Settle down,” C’gan said irritably, shielding his eyes from the hot mid-summer sun. “Everyone, yes, that means you too Reeth, either settle down or go away. It’s time for a new ballad.”

Reeth ignored him, or more likely didn’t hear him, chasing her own tail in a circle around Om'riel a few yards from everyone else. Om'riel stretched both his arms out to brush his fingertips against her wings as she spun, giggling.

C’gan looked at J’pei. J’pei reached out to Surugath. _Love? One more for your game?_ Surugath sent back an agreeable mental hum; momentarily she and Orpith bounced over from the lakeshore, wings spread to practice gliding with each leap, and chirped appealingly to Reeth. Om'riel’s dragon squeaked, tripped, licked her rider, and ran off to play tag with her two clutchmates.

A brief nod was the only acknowledgement of his help C’gan gave J’pei before snapping at Om'riel (a bit wobbly on his feet, dizzy from Reeth’s circling) to join everyone else. P’gyo shuffled closer to Q’resh so Om'riel could sit down cross-legged on the grass between him and the twins.

“Today’s lesson is one you’d best learn before your dragons understand it, but don’t _dwell,_ and don’t _balk_ at it either.”

 _Oh no,_ J’pei thought. There was only one thing they could be learning where reticence was flatly discouraged instead of talked through, and overthinking it before the dragons took notice could be dangerous. Pondering the mechanics of _between?_ Fine. Caution over trying out gliding from the heights? Something to discuss with the Weyrlingmaster, and practice lower launch points more. Fantasizing about soaring through the skies together or competing in the Spring Games? Encouraged!

Everyone else realized what today’s lesson would be at once. The youngest burst into nervous giggles, failing to stifle them as C’gan glared. Om'riel twisted his fingers together, biting the nearest knuckle. Q’resh looked firmly at the grass in front of him. Ch’joh affected an air of boredom, but next to J’pei at the edge of their rough line, uncrossed his legs so he could stand up and leave quickly. J’pei hoped he wouldn’t. That would just drag things out.

“We’ll start with the green flights,” C’gan said, casting a sharp eye at them all when this produced another round of giggles. “You’ll learn the ballad for gold flights too, everyone does, but none of you will need that unless Husath or Suzukith get it into their heads to compete with the bronzes.”

The two brownriders stopped giggling, eyes wide. “Can that really happen?” R’shi asked.

“Don’t believe me, eh?” C’gan must be in a bad mood today. Normally he was much mellower to the brown weyrlings, not using the sharper edge of his tongue on them. “Ask one of them as means to mentor you. Wingseconds can show you just where in the archives the attempts were made.” C’gan sniffed and checked the tune of his gitar. “Not that they came close to winning. Only bronzes can catch gold, and that’s that.”

R’shi and N’tsu heaved huge sighs of relief.

 _“A glowing hide for all to see,”_ C’gan sang. _“Greener than the greenest sea, an urge to kill or just to flee, to soar above in hot frenzy…”_

The ballad forbade greenriders from taking their dragons out of the Weyr if they might rise soon, to ensure the green had suitors around, and hopefully prevent the wave of lust weyrfolk could shrug off from washing over holders. Forbade anyone who didn’t live in the barracks from stepping foot inside when a dragon whose rider lived there rose, whether to chase or be chased. Then the very next line urged older weyrlings to get themselves to the privacy chamber, instead of the barracks, to help synchronization.

Synchronization ran through the song. The kind no one could help, like the total merging of minds during the chase, and sort of half-merge during the mating itself. The kind a rider _could_ help, like accepting the rider of the dragon to catch theirs, instead of arranging a stand-in (which the song cautioned might not even work, anyway). The effort of reaching back out to your dragon, when the force of the catch jostled your connection, so you could guide them home after. And then the bits people argued over, like whether or not their dragons’ proddiness affecting their own moods was something greenriders could ignore.

C’gan sang the teaching ballad through twice, before coaxing the weyrlings into singing along, going over each verse on its own.

One single verse let them know greens started rising at a Turn old, around four times a Turn, and the heat leading up to it could last anywhere from one day to an entire sevenday.

That “the dragon decides and the rider complies” meant no one should hold riders accountable for actions taken during a mating flight, on the other hand, took up three verses.

Everyone bolted the second C’gan dismissed them to lunch, and the teens avoided each other all afternoon. They’d already spent more time on their own as spring and summer simmered along, neglecting lesson reviews in favor of flight practice and swimming. Today J’pei crossed the whole lake twice, resting for a bit in the middle on Surugath’s stomach as she floated in the cool water.

 _It’s just another dragoncare ballad,_ J’pei told himself. _Just like oiling regularly, and claw cleaning, and harness fits. It doesn’t have to be awkward._

It was awkward.

“Ah, you’ve got the ‘I’ll never get that terrible song out of my head’ look,” L’deni said at dinner, sitting down across from J’pei and Esme. Bluerider K'sawa took the end spot, next to Earl, who’d been grilling Ch’joh on different Holds’ names for the same edible plants. From the sound of their conversation, drumming holder lore into Earl’s head was how _he’d_ spent the afternoon, despite D’nis having a free day.

L’deni hummed the tune from that morning’s lesson. L’mer dropped his head into his hands with a mortified groan. Ch’joh just rolled his eyes.

“You learned the laundry song again?” Esme asked, wrinkling her nose.

“No,” J’pei said. He sighed silently. Musical admonitions to separate woolens and linens flowed into C’gan’s voice enunciating “remain in the Weyr to save holders fear.” “Thanks. I was trying to _not_ put them together.”

“Aw, I’ll make it up to you,” Esme promised, patting his arm. “Teach me this new song and I’ll make sure to get an even obnoxiouser version stuck in Dad’s head.”

L’deni snickered. “Just hum it, Esme, trust us, he’ll be right back to twelve turns old and mortified.”

“Today’s dragoncare ditties were about mating flights,” Ch’joh said, smirking at her.

“Oooh, now you _have_ to teach me,” Esme said, gasping in delight, already anticipating ways to horrify and embarrass dragonriders who annoyed her. Earl rolled his eyes and left to relieve Felena at the dishwashing station.

They spent the rest of dinner teaching Esme the green mating flight ballad. It wasn’t so mortifying with her making fun of the terrible rhymes, and J’pei felt less worried about getting the words wrong with friendly older riders right there to correct them. Maybe if J’pei, Ch’joh, and L’mer made sure to spread themselves out among the other kids, they’d all pass the quiz, without anyone getting called a featherhead or dim-glow again.

N’ris and K’tis would probably be fine; they were faster at feeding each other lines through their dragons than anyone else in the clutch. Q’resh would be fine too, his quiet demeanor making C’gan forget to quiz him half the time. The fourteen-Turn-old bluerider didn’t actually need to be forgotten to avoid chastisement, quicker at memorizing songs than anyone else and helping his friends practice after lessons. He couldn’t help anyone else getting quizzed, though; Mianath was so shy talking to other dragons that line-feeding was nearly impossible.

Well, C’gan had only taught them the song today. Hopefully he’d only ask for a group recital before introducing the next song, and not test them until next week. Maybe even not before teaching them the gold mating flight song too, for contrast. He’d taught them three different signs-of-ill-health ballads before seriously quizzing them last month.

“There’s a green ballad and a gold ballad,” L’mer said thoughtfully. “Is there a blue ballad? Or brown or bronze?”

“Oh, yeah,” K'sawa said. He raised one hand in the air by his head, the other in front of his chest, and twiddled his fingers as though playing gitar. He cleared his throat, and with no discernable tune sang, _“Some of us keep half our brains, and some of us keep nearly none of them, and some of us keep nearly all of them, no matter how much brain you keep it’s more than your partner will so don’t be a di—”_ he fumbled the imaginary gitar, coughed, and continued, _“a jerk, don’t be a jerk, don’t be a jerk.”_ He bowed and dropped his hands. “That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Everything else you need to know is in the other two ballads.”

“Thanks!” L’mer laughed.

“You don’t have to say jerk,” L’deni said dryly. “You can just say don’t be a dick.”

K’sawa gave him a scandalized look. “I can’t cuss in front of the _babies!_ What would Manora think of me?”

“I’ve heard worse cusses than that!” L’mer said, sounding more mortified at being called a baby than he’d been by the entire rest of the day. He looked towards the kitchen caverns, where his old dormmate had slunk off to wash dishes. “Mostly when Earl stubbed his toe.”

Esme slipped her arm through J’pei’s when he got up after dinner, walking with him to the Bowl. “Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked quietly, when they stepped out onto the grass. When he was silent for a few slow strides across the cool, whispering stalks, she squeezed his arm against her side. “You know I’m not gonna laugh at you. Not if something’s really wrong.”

“I know.” More silence. He didn’t know what to say. How could he tell his little sister that an activity she’d enjoyed for Turns...scared him? And how could he tell her he worried the Weyrlingmaster’s thoughtless insults towards the greens and sometimes the blues were hindering them as dragonriders, without coming across as just another disrespectful youth whining about a harsh teacher?

Esme didn’t press again, walking silently arm in arm all the way back to the barracks. Surugath came out to greet them, gliding down to walk beside them a ways. Esme held her hand out; Surugath licked her fingers.

 _You taste like stars,_ Surugath said. J’pei repeated her words for Esme. She tilted her head back to look up at the night sky spread over them.

“Yeah?” Esme said. She leaned forward and politely licked Surugath’s chin. “You taste like trees.”

 _I know what trees are!_ Surugath said excitedly, and circled them twice before walking again. _Aldamth shared his eyes with Namith when he came back from patrol, and let me look too! I want to see trees. I want to TASTE trees. Can we do that tomorrow?_

“I want to,” J’pei said, knowing as soon as he said it how true it was. The Weyr was home, but he’d felt so horrifyingly trapped since Nemorth laid her clutch. “But we’d have to talk C’gan into leading us all down the tithing tunnel, since you can’t fly over the caldera without help yet or carry me, and I don’t think he will. Not when he can teach us just as well inside the Bowl as outside it.”

Surugath whined in the back of her throat. _Don’t like tunnels!_ She liked weyrs just fine, exploring the unoccupied ones during their free time, but that wasn’t the same thing at all.

“I know, love,” J’pei said. “We’ll fly soon. When you can get over the caldera, we’ll go see some trees.”

 _Good!_ Surugath said. Esme leaned her head against J’pei’s shoulder, sighing at the same time he did.

“Will you take me to see trees too, Surugath?” Esme asked. J’pei hoped so. He knew Esme would keep the secret of how to sneak out, how to get away just for fun instead of a gathering expedition. “And stars?”

 _Yes!_ Surugath promised. “Yes,” J’pei said, and knew in his heart that even if they were never able to _sneak_ out, he’d make sure to take Esme flying whenever she wanted. Gullers and Rishall too. Any of the girls. Who cared if he got in trouble?

It wasn’t like staying out of trouble had won any of his hard-earned respect back since his Impression.

~

Ch’joh leaned against Namith as she napped, legs stretched out on the sun-warmed stone of the landing ledge, watching other dragons playing down in the Bowl. He still had to catch a lift on Aldamth to reach D’nis’s weyr, and he wasn’t going to _complain_ about wrapping his arms around his boyfriend while soaring through the air, but _shells_ was he looking forward to flying with Namith herself.

At least she could fly all the way up here on her own, now. Had been able to all summer, actually, but somehow that hadn’t gotten him to spend more time with D’nis again. Not the way post-Games free time had gotten N’bast and L’colm to seek out Om'riel and Tinall for goofing off around the lake, or summer weather had gotten J’pei seeking out Esme, Gullers, and Anjali whenever their work took them outdoors.

“Ugh.” Ch’joh thumped his head back against Namith’s side as D’nis copied his pose against Aldamth. “Did we break up when I wasn’t looking?” Ch’joh asked.

“Considering you just asked me to be in your first flight, I don’t _think_ we did,” D’nis said. D’rees of the Circle had come and given all the young greenriders a talk even blunter than the teaching ballad about what to expect, and their limited options. Ch’joh still wasn’t sure if he wanted a definite stand-in for the mating flight, just because he _could,_ or if he wanted to see where the Wind took them. Either way, Aldamth and Namith’s tails curled up on the weyr ledge probably meant the blue would do his best to win.

“I think I was supposed to miss you,” Ch’joh said. “While I was busy learning dragonriding. But I didn’t. I like being with you but I don’t miss it.” He winced. “That sounds bad.”

“Maybe to holders it would,” D’nis said. He scratched Aldamth’s elbow, earning a draconic whuff of contentment. “But we’re not holders. Or crafters. And you’re a different person than when we met.” He tilted his chin slightly to indicate Namith. “An amazing person, but a different one. Do you want us to break up?”

“No. But I don’t want us to be together, either.” Ch’joh sighed. “Mostly I’m tired.”

“Then I think,” D’nis said, in a very gentle voice that made Ch’joh close his eyes. “We should break up, and you should focus on _you._ You’ve spent over half a Turn learning all about _her,_ and it’s easy to forget a lot of things.”

“You’ll still be in our flight, right?” Ch’joh asked, opening his eyes again. It seemed like more dragons joined the spectators for weyrling training day. Some clearly for the novelty, but most paid far too much attention to _just_ the greens for comfort. Namith obviously deserved all the suitors in the world, but it would be hard for them to really show off and impress her if the sky was too crowded.

“We’ll be in every flight you want us to,” D’nis said. He leaned forward, reaching across the gap between their dragons to pick Ch’joh’s hand off the stone and kiss his knuckles.

“Unless you’re on patrol,” Ch’joh pointed out dryly, but he squeezed D’nis’s fingers. “Or at Games training. Or sent off on some random errand by your wingleader.”

D’nis squeezed back. “We’ll be in this one for sure.”

“Good.”

~

J’pei surveyed the Bowl in the clear morning light and nodded to himself in satisfaction. Off-duty dragons dozed on their weyr ledges or hovered over the feeding pens. None loitered around the training grounds. His repeated comments to C’gan had finally paid off.

“Are we not interesting anymore?” Ch’joh shielded his eyes with one hand and peered around the Bowl too. “Thank Faranth, I was getting tired of falling on my ass with an audience.”

“C’gan talked to some of the wingleaders,” J’pei explained.

“After _you_ talked to _him,_ I’ll bet,” Ch’joh muttered.

J’pei shrugged; it was true, but that didn’t mean he had to _say_ so. “A dragonrider can handle any distraction!” the Weyrlingmaster barked in the exact same tone as all the other traditionalisms. It took J’pei pointing out that while that was _true,_ they were still being _trained_ to handle those distractions, and the audience certainly wasn’t a planned part of C’gan’s oh-so-excellent curriculum. What really seemed to tip the scales was a bronze rumble-laughing at one of Orpith and Everth’s antics at _just_ the right moment to distract brown Husath so he flew straight directly into C’gan’s Tagath.

Flight practice went better than it had all month; the three youngest riders all coached their dragons into four full laps around the Bowl, and Reeth and Mianath pulled off the trading altitudes without losing speed trick they’d been struggling with. C’gan nodded approvingly at everyone’s efforts, and clapped the nearest weyrling on the back before dismissing them for the day.

 _I want to swim,_ Surugath said plaintively, before they’d even turned away from the training grounds.

“Then we’ll go swim,” J’pei promised her.

The youngest weyrlings and their dragons followed C’gan back to a patch of grass just outside the Lower Cavern’s main entrance to go through their afternoon lessons with the other Weyr children. Their ability to pay attention had increased dramatically the instant the weather grew warm enough to learn outside, not snug within the Lower Caverns with entrances too small for dragons, even young ones. Summer lessons letting out earlier than winter ones probably helped too.

Would R’shi and N’tsu stop when autumn bled into winter, sending everyone indoors? P’gyo, T’kash, and N’reen were still young enough to stay, but the two brown weyrlings were around the age most weyrbrats stopped attending lessons and started taking on Lower Caverns chores. When all of them were that age, would C’gan keep up his Weyrsinger duties and let them _all_ have free afternoons? Or would Sanra take up those duties again?

Without the recent audience inhibiting them, most of the teenage weyrlings stayed at the training grounds to practice their acrobatics and dance moves. According to L’deni, the team dances done for Gather competitions were one of the most popular events of the secret spring festival, with the dragons involved too. None of the weyrlings could quite imagine how that worked, though N’ris and K’tis had decided on their own to practice walking barefoot along their greens’ backs, just in case it was helpful.

Today Ch’joh stuck with J’pei. Namith loped along ahead of them as they walked to the lake, bouncing back over every dozen yards or so to leap on Surugath’s back, talons carefully curled up, wings tucked in, and roll down her spine. Surugath didn’t change pace, but she laughed every time.

The sandy edge of the lakeshore was soft and warm. Ch’joh sighed happily as he stretched out on it. J’pei tugged off his boots and lay down next to him. Surugath nosed hopefully at the boots. J’pei swatted her snout. “You wanted to swim, not play fetch,” he reminded her.

_I can do both!_

“You are _not_ throwing my boots in the lake.”

Ch’joh snickered. Surugath waded splashily into the water, pretending she hadn’t any interest in boots or other silly human things like that whatsoever, and yelped when Namith, lurking just under the surface, burst up in front of her. “Good thing it’s _warm_ sunlight today,” Ch’joh said, lifting up the now-damp fabric of his tunic.

“Mm.” J’pei draped one arm over his eyes, slowly relaxing into the warm sand. Surugath and Namith’s aquatic antics burbled happily at the back of his mind. Ch’joh hummed a tune they’d picked up last summer at the Nerat Gather.

“You know,” Ch’joh said quietly. “I didn’t notice how stressed you were until today. Sorry about that.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“Not _now_. I mean, when all those great big beasts were watching us train. I didn’t notice how tense you were, but that’s gone now. Do you really hate having an audience that much?”

“I hate not knowing why they’re there,” J’pei said. The twins speculated that Nemorth’s clutches being so many Turns apart made _any_ weyrling training a novelty, especially since the last one was all in wings now. But that only explained the occasional spectator they got, who usually chatted with C’gan afterwards, or offered to help out for a bit. Not the growing number of dragons and a few riders that just...lurked.

“They, uh, might be anticipating our first mating flights,” Ch’joh offered tentatively. J’pei screwed his eyes shut even under his arm. He’d thought of that. He hated that idea even more than not knowing. “Most of _us_ will have stand-ins, or stay in the barracks, but the _dragons_ won’t.” There was a long, awkward silence. “D’nis got permission from his wingleader to stick around, when Namith starts getting all brighter-than-normal green. Even if Aldamth doesn’t catch her, I want him there.” There was an even longer silence. “Is there...any riders you want to be at yours? Or, um, dragons that Surugath fancies?”

“...no,” J’pei said, trying to sound calm, neutral, but his voice cracked in the middle of the word. He heard Ch’joh shuffle up onto his elbows.

“J’pei? Shit, what’d I say?”

“Nothing.” It didn’t even sound like a word. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, I _think_ you just tried to tell me everything’s fine, but since you’re leaking snot down your face and barely getting words out, forgive me for not believing you.”

J’pei rolled onto his side, away from Ch’joh, ashamed of the tears he couldn’t stop. Why was he crying? He shouldn’t be crying over...it was just a _question,_ one everyone was thinking lately. It shouldn’t make him...this was so...so... _childish._ A silly little daydream of some kid that listened to too many ballads.

“Hey.” Ch’joh gently put his hand on J’pei’s shoulder. “Come on. I bet my shirt’s way softer than that sand.”

 _It is,_ Surugath agreed. _Sand is for itches. You’re not itchy. You’re sad._ J’pei sat up, grimacing at the awkward grit on one side of his face from the sand mixing with tears. Surugath sat out at her favorite depth, where she could sit with everything but her head submerged. _What helps with sad?_

“Having a good cry and talking about it with someone,” J’pei said automatically, advice he’d given many weyrbrats over the Turns. He dug out his handkerchief and brushed the sand off his face. He took a few deep breaths.

Surugath ducked her snout under and blew bubbles, chortling. _You did that! Some of that._ She raised her wings suddenly, stopping Namith from swimming past her. Namith chuffed and neatly flipped backwards, lashing her tail to make waves. Distracted from J’pei’s confusing emotions, Surugath flipped around too, to chase her friend deeper into the lake.

“They’re going to try this again come winter and freeze their tails off,” Ch’joh said, snorting. He’d kept his hand on J’pei’s shoulder as he sat up, and squeezed once before letting it slide off. “The dumb part is they’ll either remember the cold next summer and refuse to swim, or they’ll forget it and freeze their tails off _every_ winter.”

“They’re fine in cold,” J’pei said, smile coming out wobbled. “They just _prefer_ heat. Didn’t we take you up for the snow games, back when you first got here?”

“Shells, you’re right.” Ch’joh smacked his forehead with one palm. “Now who’s forgetful? Don’t answer that.” He reached over and gently knuckled J’pei’s arm. “Not so forgetful that I don’t remember you crying half a minute ago, and then giving yourself advice out of nowhere. Surugath asking clever questions?”

“Mm.”

“Are you going to _take_ your own advice?” Ch’joh asked. He didn’t sound chiding or sarcastic. Just curious.

J’pei sighed. He ran a hand down his face. Looked out across the lake. A few older greens and blues swam together near the far shore, their riders just distance specks along the edge of the Bowl.

“I thought…”

J’pei trailed off. It sounded naive even in his head.

Ch’joh just waited.

“I thought I’d have all the time in the world.”

The water was so blue. The summer breeze came back, soft, warm, rustling the cattails further down the shore.

“Maybe I wouldn’t Impress, and I’d go to a craft hall. Or I would, but everyone knew I’d be a b-rider. Not even blues rise as early as greens, and I thought...” His voice choked up again. He blinked back the fresh tears, looking up from the lake into the blue summer sky. “I wanted my first time to be with someone who really cared about me. Maybe someone I was even in love with. Like my grandparents had—” He broke off with a sob, covering his face in his hands. _Childish, ridiculous, you grew up in the Weyr, you know better._

Ch’joh scooted closer and tentatively stroked his back. “And now you’ve got an absolute darling tied to your heart, who’s going to drag you up into the clouds in a couple months whether or not even _she_ wants to.”

J’pei nodded. He tried to straighten up, wipe the tears away, but could only press his hands more firmly against his face. “It’s...it’s silly,” he choked out. “It’s just sex. It doesn’t need to be...sp-sp-special…”

“That’s not silly.” Ch’joh kept stroking his back. “Hey. It’s not. Wanting your first time to be special isn’t silly. It’s not.”

~ 

“Technically, yes, you can ask for a stand-in for any flight,” M’kel said. He leaned against the stone wall of the back corridor they were in, and ran a hand through his greying hair, flight-cap still dangling from the fingers of his other hand. Ch’joh copied the pose on the other wall, but crossed his arms over his chest instead of touching his hair. “They’re a given in the barracks, since you’ll just hump the bedding or another weyrling while you’re in there. You can ask _everyone_ to leave if you want, not just the younger kids, but it’ll just draw more attention to you, and there’s a few riders, that, well…”

“Whose attention is bad,” Ch’joh said, baring his teeth. “And they’ll wait for me to age out of the barracks, for a nice soft plaything.”

M’kel grimaced, and dragged his hand down his face. “Yeah. X’sap’s dead, but there’s a few shaping up as bad as him.”

“But if I want someone who’s not in the barracks anymore…?” Ch’joh prompted.

“You opt for the privacy chamber, and make it known who you want, and everyone will try to respect it,” M’kel said. “Namith’s first couple flights, no one will say anything, and most wingleaders will give your choice some time off during the heat week. Keep asking longer than a Turn or so, you’ll get a reputation for selfishness and immaturity. Not something you want.”

“Because it’s not as good for the dragons as complete mimicry?”

“That, and it’s hard on the riders too.” M’kel sighed. “Sometimes it doesn’t work. The b-riders _will_ be drawn to you unconsciously by their draconic bond, and once Namith’s caught, the winner might keep control of himself, or be nearly as out of their mind as _you_ are. A stand-in only works if your choice is with you from the start, hopefully physically holding on to you, and the rest of the suitors pull the winner away. And they’ll need a partner too, so better hope everyone had the foresight to ask their weyrmates to hang out around the privacy chamber, if they even _have_ weyrmates.”

“They can’t just fuck a pillow?”

“...the ones who mostly keep control of themselves might.” M’kel drummed his fingers against his lips thoughtfully. “Most of us went through a couple flights in the barracks _alone,_ thanks to training schedules, and it was _miserable._ There’s this terrible need to be close to someone, and it’s only eased by human contact. Rutting against the bed, maybe getting a hand on yourself, will happen by instinct during the flight if you’re alone, but we came out of those flights just...like…”

M’kel curled his hand into a claw and tapped his chest, looking down at his own gesture. “Like something scooped out all the joy of the flight and didn’t put anything back, so all the bad feelings ooze in when we wake up, if we even slept at all. The dragons feel it too, once they’re home, and it’s awful for a couple days.” M’kel brightened up. “But only a couple days.”

“Damn,” Ch’joh said. He tilted his head back to gently thump the wall, and sighed. “So even if I lock myself in a broom closet, it’ll make Namith miserable?”

“Nothing here _locks,”_ M’kel pointed out. He tilted his head to the side, raising one brow at Ch’joh. “And you’re not asking for yourself anyway.”

Ch’joh didn’t say anything.

“We all know you’d _like_ D’nis to win, but you’ve never seemed bothered by the thought of someone else catching you. You’re asking for J’pei. He’s scared.”

 _Damn._ “That obvious?” 

Now M’kel sighed. “Honestly? I don’t know. Most of us were scared, even if we wouldn’t admit it, so it’s easy to guess. If you hadn’t been asking all these questions I probably wouldn’t have thought about why, and if he weren’t the Weyrleader’s son no one would be paying any attention to him. He’d be just another green weyrling, and the sympathetic would assume he was scared, and the thoughtless would assume he was excited. After all, most of us are long past our first flights, and have far more memories of the good ones to draw from.”

Ch’joh scowled. “Everyone needs to back the hell off from J’pei and let him just _be.”_

“And if he’d gotten any other color, they would,” M’kel said sympathetically.

“Not _any_ other color,” Ch’joh pointed out sarcastically. “Just the male ones.”

“True,” M’kel said, laughing. “But I think we’d all be so relieved to _finally_ have another gold we wouldn’t care if her rider were a _wherry.”_

~

“Hey,” Ch’joh said, slinging an arm over J’pei’s shoulders. “You got a minute?”

“Um…” Surugath was napping. J’pei was pacing between the chicken weyr and herb beds, at loose ends. “Yes?”

“Great!” Ch’joh steered the two of them away from the looming Lower Caverns out into the untended main Bowl for a rambling walk. “I put my vast, worldly experience into your sex troubles—”

“You’re younger than me!” J’pei interjected, and glanced around in case anyone was nearby. No one was. Well, Namith was bouncing back and forth between wildflower patches a few dragonlengths away. That was fine.

“Not even by a Turn,” Ch’joh said, waving his hand dismissively. “And I’ve got _way_ more life experience. But not all the experiences, of course, since that’s impossible, so I talked to your sisters and a couple other people. Not about _you,”_ Ch’joh added hastily, when J’pei froze. “I don’t spill secrets. They know I’m as curious as Namith, it’s fine.”

J’pei sighed, but Ch’joh was right; no one would bat an eye at him asking sex-related questions.

“Anyway,” Ch’joh said. “First, M’kel pretty much said the same thing D’rees did, about stand-ins and the barracks, so you know all that already. And then I thought, it’s a damn shame we’re not supposed to mess around while our dragons are maturing, because you could’ve gone ahead and had _your_ first time without Surugath driving it.” Ch’joh sighed. “But you wouldn’t have done that even if you could’ve, because having sex just to get it out of the way wouldn’t have felt very special, would it?”

“...no. It wouldn’t have.”

“So the next question is, what _counts_ as sex anyway?” Ch’joh unslung his arm to gesture more. “Grinding? Handjobs? Oral? Intercourse?” J’pei’s face grew hotter with every word; he couldn’t look at Ch’joh. “Esme says it all counts, of course, because she’s a smart girl after my own heart, but some of the men I’ve been with didn’t count handjobs or grinding. For you, I imagine, it’s less _what_ you’re doing that matters, and more being off somewhere private with someone you care about, exploring things together.”

J’pei covered his face. Ch’joh’s voice got softer. “I’m not picking on you. That sounds nice. It’s not like D’nis and I had any sex since the Hatching, but trading backrubs or something was nice, just trying to make each other feel good.”

“Is this going somewhere?” J’pei asked, mortified voice slipping out from under his hands.

“Mm-hm. Some of the gals told me a few dragonriders think if they don’t stick their dick somewhere downstairs, it’s not sex, just foreplay.”

“What, even oral?” J’pei asked, lowering his hands, sheer disbelief overriding the embarrassment briefly.

“Yep. You can imagine what idiots Gullers and Rishall think they are.” Ch’joh held his hands out widely. “With all those different personal definitions of _sex,_ that means people have different definitions of _first time_ too, right? Esme says she remembers first times travelling new places better than first times trying different sex acts. Rishall can tell you exactly where, when, and who she was with for her first kiss on the lips, and smacked my arm when I asked her about other stuff.”

Ch’joh sped up his steps and turned so he could look J’pei in the face. J’pei fought the impulse to look away again.

“Surugath and you are gonna have _her_ first mating flight soon,” Ch’joh said, voice gentle. “You and her are gonna have other firsts; first time she flies carrying you, first time you go _between,_ maybe even first time you fight Thread. They’ll all be special, because you’ll be with her.” Ch’joh took J’pei’s hands in his own, stroking his thumbs over J’pei’s knuckles.

“But no matter when it is, _your_ first time having sex because _you_ want to is still going to be special. No matter how many times Surugath’s risen, or how many different dragons have caught her. It’ll be special because it’ll be _yours.”_

The terrible tightness in J’pei’s chest cracked, melting away in a warm glow he couldn’t put a name to. He pulled Ch’joh into a hug, relieved tears spilling over.

_“Thank you.”_


	14. Summer's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Late Summer

At the beginning of Eighth Month, C’gan dragged workbenches out of the weyrling gear shed and sat them all down with broken straps, cracked cushions, and raw materials.

“You’ll fly together next month for sure,” C’gan declared. “Even if it’s only a dragonlength off the ground. Before then you’ll learn how to maintain and repair all of your own gear. And how to  _ make _ it before joining a wing. Now, who can tell me what this buckle is for?”

The four eldest weyrlings all knew gear repair well enough to teach it, so C’gan spread them out between the others. The twins and Q'resh had only gotten into mending clothes and firestone sacks before Impression, not even handling riding leathers yet.

The first sevenday was all about spotting problems. What were the signs of metal fatigue? Should leather really look like that? What damage was preventable, and what was inevitable with time and hard usage? When could a component be repaired, and when did it need to be replaced entirely?

In the second they began repair work on damaged gear set aside after the Spring Games. C’gan took the time after the daily lectures to check in with the greenriders as they worked, to make sure they knew that by the end of summer their dragons might rise at any time, and what that meant.

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said loudly, looking up from sorting buckles. “We know. D’nis’ll be there. As a stand-in if Aldamth loses.” He picked up another handful of buckles, spreading them out on the table in front of them. “Whose job is it to let other riders know they might need their own stand-in, anyway? Mine? D’nis’s? His wingleader’s?”

“I know,” was all J’pei said, when C’gan reminded him any sudden change in color or mood meant a pair was grounded until the mating flight. That afternoon he swam to the center of the lake with Surugath.

_ Why do we need gear? _ Surugath asked, as they floated idly in the water, J’pei keeping one hand on her wing-tip.  _ I don’t need gear to glide. Or fly. _

“It’s to keep me from falling off,” J’pei told her. He sent a mental image of a rider falling from their dragon, but shied away from the thought of impact. “I don’t bounce.”

_ You float, _ Surugath pointed out, and shared her view from one eye, of J’pei next to her right now. Then she shared a recent memory of feathers and leaves swirling through the air over the Bowl, caught in a tiny wind spiral. With it came a whisper of senses J’pei didn’t have on his own, a familiarity with the air currents, anticipation of the way they’d move, like the next beat in a song he knew.

“I’m heavier than a feather,” J’pei said slowly. Surugath was still sharing her sight, not just himself next to her, but some of their friends as tiny figures on the shore, practicing dance moves. J’pei sliced his limbs through the water, righting himself, swimming closer to Surugath. “Maybe...maybe if we stay  _ over _ the lake…”

Surugath hummed happily as J’pei pulled himself out of the water onto her neck, sitting between two ridges. She was as big as the average adult greens, now, and still growing.  _ This is ridiculous, _ J’pei told himself. It was completely against every rule. Not even his mother had flown without safety harnesses. And yet…

“Swim to the cliffside,” J’pei whispered. Surugath lashed her tail and stroked her wings, pushing her muscles against the water, so much heavier than air, like she’d been doing nearly every day since the weather warmed. J’pei clung to the ridge in front of him, legs tightening instinctively as the water pushed back on them. “That’s not too tight, is it?” He asked Surugath. She snorted.

_ We’re really doing this, _ J’pei thought, not daring to say it aloud. Surugath reached the cliff face. She reared up, flapping her wings furiously, to grasp the lowest weyr with her front claws. J’pei almost fell off then, clinging to his dragon for dear life. They spent a few minutes laughing at themselves once safely on the ledge.

_ That’s not so bad, _ Surugath said, peering down from the weyr ledge to the water below.

“Maybe for you,” J’pei said, tilted forward on her neck. His loosened hair swung forward too; the cord he used to secure his braid must have fallen into the lake during their ascent. “That’s still a pretty big jump for me.”

_ Good thing you have me, _ Surugath said smugly. She straightened up, shaking her wings out.

“Ready?” J’pei asked. Surugath trilled, extending her wings all the way.

Then she launched into the air.

J’pei whooped, laughing, eyes watering in the wind. Surugath bugled. The water sparkled under them, sunlight dancing in the tiny waves formed by their passage. Surugath circled the lake, skimming low near the shallows and pushing herself higher over the depths. J’pei let go of her neck-ridge, throwing his arms into the air from sheer exhilaration.

This was nothing like being a passenger, riding behind someone else, weighted down with gathering baskets. The wind kissed his skin, ran through his hair to stream it like a banner, told his dragon just the right way to angle herself for more height, a dive, an elegant turn on one wingtip. Nothing weighed them down.

J’pei was a  _ dragonrider! _

Far too soon, J’pei grew chilled enough that Surugath noticed, and she glided down to the warmest shore, with the widest stretch of shallow water for the sun to heat. He slid off her neck, still laughing, and splashed around to grab her snout and press his forehead against hers.

“We did it! We flew!”

_ We did! _ Surugath chuffed happily.

J’pei drew back and planted a proud kiss between her swirling eyes. “We’re going to fly  _ everywhere,” _ J’pei promised giddily.

_ Everywhere! _ Surugath agreed. Then she sneezed, snout tickled by J’pei’s loose hair.

_ I want to fly too, _ a familiar voice whined in J’pei’s head. He looked to the side to see Namith and Ch’joh jogging over from dance practice. Ch’joh had an odd look on his face that J’pei couldn’t place.

“I know you do,” Ch’joh told Namith, before J’pei could say anything. The peculiar expression turned into a frown. “You’re shivering.” He sighed, and took J’pei’s hand. “Come on, come dry off before you freeze to death.”

“It’s the hottest part of the day,” J’pei pointed out, letting himself be tugged along.

“Not a-dragonback it isn’t,” Ch’joh said firmly. He glanced over his shoulder at Surugath. “Did you really just drag your rider through the cold air in just shorts, sopping wet?”

Surugath snorted. Ch’joh snorted back. Namith nattered at Surugath, a half-curious, half-scolding sound. J’pei couldn’t make out words again, but he felt her curiosity.

“Yes, they looked amazing,” Ch’joh said in response to Namith, and blushed. “No, we’re not trying it today.  _ You _ can fly all you want.  _ I _ am not going up without nice warm leathers and full safety harness,  _ thank _ you.”

“I probably won’t go back up without safety gear either,” J’pei said.

_ “Probably?” _ Ch’joh all but shrieked. He scooped a towel off the ground where sand met grass and flung it at J’pei. “Dry off. Warm up. Unfreeze the survival part of your brain, does this happen to  _ all _ riders, is that why the Weyr is so crazy, flying solo the first time knocks all your self preservation out and it never grows back—”

J’pei just laughed.

~

_ You’d think a countdown to flying lessons would be enough of a distraction, _ Ch’joh thought, catching himself staring at J’pei during dinner  _ again. _ He hastily looked back at Esme telling a story about the series of trades she’d done at Gathers the past few Turns to get “the best birthday present on all Pern” for Gullers. Who was late to dinner fixing some pipework, or else Esme wouldn’t be telling this story because she hadn’t, actually, handed over the present yet.

Earl caught Ch’joh’s self-conscious refocus from J’pei to Esme, and smirked at him from across the table. Ch’joh glared. The smirk turned into an almost sympathetic smile before vanishing. They hadn’t exactly gotten along before the Hatching, but now a tense, unspoken, mutual sense of purpose underlined all their interactions. Earl’s holder-lessons had begun including wilderness survival and the layout of Fax’s lands recently, neither of them voicing why.

Everyone at the table burst into giggles. Shards, he’d missed Esme’s joke. Not going to ask for a repeat. Probably took ten minutes of build up for context. Ch’joh wrestled his attention back to the story, listening long enough to snicker when she slammed three puns about smithing together. Then he slipped back to chewing over all the little clues he’d have taken as signs of potential interest from anyone else.

Whenever Ch’joh stripped off his shirt and J’pei stared for a moment, looking surprised, then gulped and looked away when he realized he was staring, did it mean he liked seeing Ch’joh half-naked? Or was he still shocked by all the scars, and felt rude for staring?  _ Chojohrnen _ had kept his clothes on as much as possible around the other candidates, marsh oil gathering aside, but feeding, bathing, and oiling a hatchling dragon was too damn messy for Ch’joh to do the same. Especially since it made so much extra laundry for the girls, and then...well, then he noticed that pretending like his scars were no big deal made N’ris feel better about his own. The poor kid had been the only bad injury from that Hatching, and he still felt like he’d messed up somehow, needing help to get to Orpith.

There was the way J’pei grew flustered by F’lar’s attention and swagger...even if it was such a well hidden fluster that nobody other than Ch’joh seemed to notice (F’lar certainly didn’t). But that could mean all sorts of things. They’d grown up together, bronzeriders’ sons the same age, one Impressing the first time they Stood, the other remaining a candidate for Turns. That’d make anyone self conscious. And all the gossips shifting from “Junpei’s sure to get bronze too, or at least brown,” to “what’re the odds Mnementh’ll take an interest in Surugath?” made everything worse.

Ch’joh barely kept himself from groaning in frustration right there at the dining table. Was it all wishful thinking? Was he talking his own hopes up? That J’pei might be interested in  _ anyone, _ let alone in Ch’joh? He couldn’t just ask, not now, not when they were all crammed into the barracks together, stuck by each others’ sides for training all day. Asking if J’pei fancied any particular riders in Surugath’s mating flight made him burrow into the sand and  _ cry, _ for Faranth's sake. Ch’joh hadn’t seen J’pei cry since that panic attack over not Impressing! Not unless you counted the damned emotion storm. There was no way Ch’joh was asking if J’pei liked anyone for  _ himself, _ not just for Surugath.

“Excuse me,” someone said quietly. Ch’joh snapped out of his thoughts to glance down the table; a bluerider he’d  _ thought _ was walking past them stood there, tray in hand, looking at J’pei.

“Mm?” J’pei hummed, at the same instant Esme broke off from her story to say “Hi Z'beili! I was just telling Anjali about you sneaking me into Bitra to get herbs.”

Z'beili smiled. “The ones you needed to trade for the whistle, right?” He focused back on J’pei. “I wanted to check with you. Kershath’s interested in Surugath. Are you comfortable with us in her flight, or should I take him out of the Weyr when she starts glowing?”

What.

J’pei blinked, and then blushed, and at this brief hesitation to answer Z'beili frowned slightly.

“C’gan remembered to tell you all that’s an option, didn’t he? I don’t think it’s in the ballads.”

“No, he forgot,” Ch’joh said quickly. D’rees mentioned it being something of a rarity, what with having to juggle patrol schedules, and the day  _ within _ her heat a dragon rose being less predictable.

“I know riders do that when there’s...problems,” J’pei said slowly. Which was a fairly diplomatic way of saying “hate each other too much to even enjoy hate-sex” or occasionally “close blood relatives”.

“Most of the time that’s why, yeah,” Z'beili said. “Because the dragons come first. But since this is  _ your _ first I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He held his free hand up briefly. “No one decent is going to be insulted if you tell us to buzz off, this time.”

“That’s good to know, thank you for telling me,” J’pei said diplomatically. The blush, mostly faded, came back as he realized that wasn’t an answer to the question. “You two can be in the flight. That’s fine.”

“Kershath will be happy to hear that,” Z'beili said, with another smile, and left. How could he do that? Dragonriders were casual about sex, sure, but shouldn’t there be more...more  _ something _ about asking to be in someone’s first mating flight? It sounded like he knew Esme, helping her make that trade, but Ch’joh had never even seen Z’beili chat with J’pei before. Never heard him ask how training was going, or gossip about Gathers, or commiserate over how hard raising a hatchling was. Not like D’nis did with Ch’joh, still friends after breaking up. Shards, like how L’deni and their other wingmates did!

Esme watched Z’beili walk off, frowning in confusion. “Are they just all assuming you’ll be out of the barracks?” she asked. J’pei shrugged. “Because if you stay in the barracks it won’t really matter who wins, Faranth knows none of your clutchmates will catch her.”

“I’m twenty,” J’pei said quietly, as though that was any kind of answer. Maybe it was. Maybe sheer age was reason enough for everyone to think he’d join the other adults in the privacy chamber. N’bast and L’colm had lost the option of the barracks just for joining a real wing at sixteen, after all.

Three more blueriders and one brown approached J’pei with the same question over the next few sevendays, all receiving the same quiet “that’s fine” and expressing the same happiness on their dragons’ behalf. Just as polite, just as casual.

Ch’joh wanted to punch all of them.

Fine?  _ Fine? _ They were happy with  _ fine? _ They should be  _ begging _ , they should be  _ honored, _ Winds blow them all away they should be bringing him flowers and complimenting his eyes and trying to impress him just as much as their dragons tried to impress Surugath. If anyone in this damned Weyr deserved to be wooed it was J’pei and none of these flight-happy meatheads could see it.

“Everyone here is an idiot!” Ch’joh said furiously to Rishall in Telgar hand-sign, sitting on the ledge of the low weyr over the feeding grounds. Directly below them, Namith gnawed on a large wherry.

“What was it today?” Rishall asked.

“P’trikor thought Botelath pursuing Surugath might be awkward because P’trikor and Esme are sometimes-lovers, and he knows she’s J’pei’s sister.”

“Remembering that puts him a leg up all the others,” Rishall pointed out. “What’d J’pei say?”

“That  _ he _ didn’t mind, but if P’trikor was bothered by it and took Botelath out of the Weyr he wouldn’t be offended.”

“Such enthusiasm,” Rishall said, a dry tone to her hands that Ch’joh had yet to master.

Namith finished the last of her wherry and scrambled up the ledge to join them, exuding contentment. She sprawled across the stone and immediately began snoring.

“You know you’re the biggest idiot of them all, right?” Rishall said.

“Am not,” Ch’joh said sulkily, leaning against Namith.

“You’re mad at them because you’re mad at yourself,” Rishall said. “Like we all were right after the Hatching. You spent all that time thinking he was straight—”

Ch’joh slapped a hand over his eyes with a loud groan. All of the times as a candidate when he’d noticed something attractive about Junpei and squashed that feeling down ran through his head. Why couldn’t he have been less cautious, back then? Said how he felt and gotten an  _ answer _ before everything got so complicated _? _ When he lowered his hand again, Rishall kept going.

“And then you weren’t  _ allowed _ to think about sex because Namith was too young, but now she isn’t and neither is Surugath, and all these men who don’t appreciate him like you do are flat out declaring an intent to sleep with him, and you’re too much of a coward to walk up and tell him how you feel.”

“It’s not cowardice,” Ch’joh said, still sulky. Okay. Maybe a little bit of cowardice.

“Then what is it?” Rishall demanded. “You were open with D’nis. You’re not scared of what everyone else thinks. You’re scared of your feelings.”

“No, I’m scared of  _ his _ feelings.”

“Rejection sucks, I get that—”

“No,” Ch’joh interrupted, leaning forward, finally saying the thing that had terrified him since seeing J’pei flying over the lake. Seeing that vision of daring and freedom, and realizing he wasn’t just attracted to J’pei, but full on, overwhelming, make-dumb-choices,  _ head over heels _ for him.

“I’m scared he  _ won’t _ reject me, even if he doesn’t want me.”

“...oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s not...he’s not  _ that _ self-sacrificing…” Rishall said, but her face called it a lie.

“I want him so bad it scares me,” Ch’joh said. “What if that comes across as  _ needing _ him? You know how he gets when he thinks people need something!”

“Oh, shit,” Rishall said again.

“Yeah, so…” Ch’joh sighed. “So I won’t make the first move. I won’t do that to him. Or to me. If he wants me...he has to take that step. Because I won’t.”

~

Flying impulsively on their own did nothing to dampen Surugath and J’pei’s enthusiasm for their first real flying lesson together. May have, in fact, made them even  _ more _ excited, knowing what it would be like. Yet they were still the last into the air that first day, J’pei double-checking the youngest riders’ safety harnesses, and Surugath convincing Onth that no, she couldn’t possibly drop P’gyo on accident.

_ Slowpokes, _ Namith teased, swooping back and forth over their heads. Surugath responded to the taunt by flying as high as she possibly could once they  _ did _ launch, higher than even Reeth had gone the day she caught a ride from an older dragon.

_ I never want to come down, _ Surugath and J’pei thought as one, gently spiraling on a thermal. Pern lay all around them, brown and grey mountains, clear blue lakes, tumbling rivers, rolling green slopes. Long ignored tension slipped from J’pei, blowing away in the wind.

They could go  _ anywhere. _

This was still a lesson, though, so the instant Tagath told Surugath to come back down they did, joining everyone else in traditional exercises around the Bowl.

“Hm,” C’gan said at the end of the morning. He signaled for the riders to stay astride, and examined all of their safety gear. “Q'resh, J’pei, Ch’joh,” C’gan said, pointing to each of them in turn. “If an older rider checks your gear and your dragons aren’t too tired, you can practice in the afternoons under Tagath’s supervision. You four—” he pointed to Om'riel, L’mer, and the twins, “—give me a whole sevenday with no safety problems and I  _ might _ let you join them.” He gave the flight-signal command to dismount. “The rest of you still have lessons with me after lunch.”

A few days later Orpith and the watch-dragon bugled the arrival of the first tithing train. Surugath alighted on the edge of the caldera, curiously watching the line of wagons and herdbeasts climbing the switchback path to the tithing tunnel.

“It really is Ninth Month already,” J’pei murmured. A sudden impulse to go tell Headwoman Manora of their approach and ask which tasks she needed him for struck. But that wasn’t his job anymore. Not unless a tithing train arrived during a heat week, when he was grounded.

_ What IS it? _ Surugath asked. J’pei spent a few minutes explaining that the herdbeasts and wherries in the feeding grounds didn’t just grow there like fungi, and then about all the supplies human Weyr inhabitants needed. Then Surugath decided that was everything she needed to know right now and wouldn’t seeing if they could do that loop-de-loop trick Everth discovered be much more interesting?

It was.

~

C’gan had only just begun teaching them to recognize Benden Weyr landmarks from the air when Surugath woke one day in a foul temper, the green of her hide taking on a new luster. Orpith took on the same shine the very next day. C’gan limited the in-air exercises to very low laps around the Bowl, and had everyone mending gear in the last hour before lunch.

After dismissing everyone else, C’gan told J’pei and N’ris to help him put all the gear away. N’ris rushed through the task and was almost out the door again when C’gan dropped a hand on his shoulder.

“Surugath and Orpith are getting very...bright,” C’gan said slowly, as though he wasn’t sure they understood what was happening. “How have you two been feeling?”

“Bored!” N’ris said, still shifting from foot to foot. “Mad. Can we go now? I want to run.”

“You can go—” C’gan’s grip slide from N’ris’s shoulder to his arm as he turned to leave.  _ “Once _ you’ve made it clear that you know what’s happening, and what you want to happen when the time comes.”

“Already  _ told _ you!” N’ris snapped. “Stay in the barracks, send the littles away, don’t care if the older weyrlings are there. I  _ told _ you already!”

“K’tis told me last month that that’s what he’d want,” C’gan said evenly. “When Everth rises. You didn’t tell me what you want when Orpith rises. Which she will before the sevenday is out.”

“K’tis told you  _ we _ want to stay in the barracks, I was  _ there, _ I was  _ nodding along, _ he said  _ we,” _ N’ris said. He didn’t wait any longer for permission to leave, wriggling out of C’gan’s grip and bolting out of the gear shed. J’pei stepped to the side to give him a clear path to the door.

C’gan sighed. “And you?”

“I’d like to spend this week with Surugath, sir,” J’pei said, every ounce of his self-control going into keeping his voice and face calm. He felt itchy and irritable, but he’d never let anyone know when he was feeling that way  _ before _ Impressing. He wasn’t going to start now. “If she wants to sun, we’ll sun, and if she wants to run around the Bowl, that’s what we’ll do.”

“And when she rises? That friend of yours asked that his old weyrmate be there, as a stand-in if necessary. You want a stand-in too?”

It didn’t surprise J’pei that C’gan, just like everyone else, expected him to make use of the privacy chamber, rather than isolating himself in the barracks. Horror crept up his throat at the idea of any of the younger weyrlings being in the barracks with him when Surugath rose, seeing him like that, and they might not have much warning to get everyone out. But that was unlikely; grounded greens helping in the Lower Caverns always seemed to have enough warning to get themselves away. His very first flight, it wouldn’t have been too odd to stay in the barracks alone.

Except he was twenty, and if he did anything to further damage his reputation as mature and responsible  _ now, _ it would take Turns to rebuild it, if ever.

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” J’pei said, biting the back of his tongue after, instead of gulping nervously.

“That’s a good lad,” C’gan said, and patted J’pei’s shoulder. “Stand-in’s are awfully hard on everyone. Knew we could count on you to not put everyone out of sorts during a flight. Not like that nuisance.”

_ Ch’joh isn’t a nuisance, _ J’pei thought angrily, and bit his tongue harder before answering. “It’s his first flight, sir. And he’s holdbred."

“So were half my clutchmates, and they didn’t make nearly as much fuss as he does about everything.”

_ You Impressed lifetimes ago, do you even remember your _ own _ first flight? _ J’pei didn’t say anything more, waiting for C’gan to dismiss him. The Weyrlingmaster went on for another minute or so, disparaging the current weyrlings in comparison to his own clutchmates, and then seemed to remember that J’pei had answered his question, and waved him out of the gear shed to finally go see Surugath.

J'pei found his dragon playing tag with their clutchmates, and shrieking irritably at everyone who bit her tail too hard. No one, as far as J’pei could tell, was playing any rougher than usual.

_ I want to fly, _ Surugath whined at J’pei when she noticed his attention back on her.  _ I can get over the caldera now. We can go see trees? See them up close? _

“We're not allowed to leave the Weyr yet,” J’pei reminded her sadly. No one else was near enough to hear him, or see his face clearly, so he let the frustrated tears do as they would. It wasn’t fair. She was finally strong enough to carry him, strong enough to get them both out of the Weyr, and they were  _ grounded _ because they couldn’t risk being too far away when her urge to mate finally crescendoed. “You’ll be able to see lots of trees during your flight, love. Or at least, afterwards, when you’re flying home.”

_ I want to see trees with YOU, _ Surugath said.

“I want to see trees with you too,” J’pei said. “I’ll ask permission when this is all done, I promise.”

_ Good. _

~

With the weyrlings simply kept in lessons in this first heat week, rather than helping out in the Lower Caverns, J’pei didn’t know how many other greens were grounded at the same time as Surugath. Out of only Faranth knew how many in heat, two synchronized with Surugath. Or more likely, she with them.

It happened in the late afternoon, three days after the talk from C’gan, in the middle of another game of tag in the Bowl, played because they were banned from solo flight practice. Surugath suddenly froze, spat Reeth’s tail out of her mouth, and launched for the feeding grounds. Two older greens spiraled down from their weyrs at the same instant, hissing hungrily.

J’pei stared, entranced. Over halfway across the Bowl, he could hardly make out what was happening with his own eyes, but Surugath’s vision bled into his. The wherries were so small. The herdbeasts were so tough. She flapped her wings hard, annoyed and frustrated and unable to choose. A green blur shot past her; Berroth struck down a herbeast, ripped it open, and invited Surugath and Ledbuth to feast with her.

Firm hands grabbed J’pei’s arm, tugging him backwards, away from his distant dragon, as a voice told him, “Just let her blood, no one cares if greens gorge but she’ll get a longer flight and be happier if she doesn’t—”

“I know that,” J’pei mumbled. Every time he blinked, his vision changed between the ground in front of him and the dead, rapidly dismembered herdbeast carcass. No matter what he saw, the taste of blood stayed the same. “She doesn’t want to gorge anyway…”

Surugath sucked down blood, the hot saltiness soothing her irritation. Berroth crunched noisily on bone, sucking out marrow instead. Ledbuth kept hissing as she drank.

A loud trill drew Surugath’s attention; Namith perched on a nearby stone ledge, tilting her head back and forth. She trilled again. Surugath trilled back.

Then she looked up.

Dozens of male dragons crowded the weyrs around the feeding grounds. Blue, brown, bronze, watching her and the other greens. They were so  _ silent. _ Surugath hissed angrily at them. They thought they could catch  _ her? _ She was faster than all of them!

“Why are there so many?” J’pei whispered. This seemed like the crowd a flight of over a half-dozen greens would get, not just  _ three. _ He glanced around himself. He stood shoulder to shoulder with L’deni and D’rees, half a dragonlength from the outer entrance to the privacy chamber, surrounded by all the riders of their dragons’ suitors.

“Beats me,” L’deni muttered.

Then Berroth hummed to Ledbuth and Surugath, who called out,  _ fly with me! _ to Namith just as they pushed off as hard and fast as they could from the ground.

J’pei rose with them, human vision forgotten, deaf to everything but the rushing wind and draconic cries of challenge, barely feeling the ground under his feet.

Surugath flew, higher, faster,  _ away, _ strong and agile and laughing. Namith stayed with her as Berroth and Ledbuth split up, not as strong but just as fast, circling her and taunting the slow suitors trying to catch up.

All the bronzes and all but one of the browns in the crowd chased Surugath. Many of the blues did too, putting in a better show of their agility than the larger males. Surugath played them all against each other, diving and spinning to make them tangle. Namith laughed at some of their failures and nattered at others. Two browns and one bronze flew high above the rest, ignoring their displays. When one dove at last, Namith called out a warning to Surugath just in time to dodge.

“Were you even trying?” J’pei hissed unconsciously, giving voice to Surugath’s disdain. Surugath bugled to Namith, to the rest of the crowd, flying straight up towards the remaining two lurkers. One took it as invitation, diving for her; she abruptly changed course, sending him into the crowd, fouling their wings.

Several blues saw the move coming, veering off sharply from the pack before impact. They came back together a moment later, between Namith and Surugath, bugling for attention, showing off a display of aerial acrobatics instead of trying to grab her. Surugath watched, intrigued, but still put more distance between herself and them.

The oldest bronze, Calanuth, had avoided collision with the presumptuous diver, and steadily gained on Surugath as she watched the blues. She hissed at him, zipping higher up. Namith warbled plaintively, stuck on the far side of the acrobatics. Calanuth ignored Surugath’s hissing, exuding a smug amusement, each wingstroke eating up far too much of the sky. He was going to catch her any second, cutting her fun short.

No. She only just  _ started, _ she didn’t want to  _ stop, _ she didn’t  _ like him. _ She didn’t like the blues now either, no matter how interesting their antics, for their accidental offense of separating her from Namith.

Calanuth came up abreast of Surugath and rolled sideways in the air towards her. She shrieked angrily and lashed out hard with her wings, smacking him in both eyes with the strong joints. Calanuth bellowed in pain, wingstrokes gone wild, dropping in altitude. The blues raced apart from each other as the bronze fell through their pattern. Namith whistled triumphantly, swooping back to Surugath’s side.

Most of the other suitors tried to catch up now, recovered from the tangling collision. Surugath called for Namith to race with her, fly above the clouds, leave them all behind. Namith whistled in delight, breaking through the clouds first. The two greens spiralled around each other in wild abandon, fast and free.

They could play all the games they wanted up here, everything they’d ever thought of in flight practice,  _ anything. _ There was no grouchy grey-muzzled blue telling them to stop messing around, no Weyrlingmaster snapping at their riders. A pack of suitors down below, intent on ending this, but they hadn’t caught up  _ yet. _

There was only Surugath and Namith, and the bright, unending summer sky.


	15. Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Late Summer, Early Autumn

J’pei reached out to Surugath before opening his eyes; she slept, warm pleasure of the flight still humming under her skin, now mellowed. Good. She was happy. The flight itself was hazy, but the older greens said the memories would come back as you woke up more, and especially once your dragon woke too. There’d been sunshine, and clouds, and Namith helping keep the suitors away— 

A soft murmur and the shifting of a body next to him made J’pei snap his eyes open.

—until she hadn’t anymore. J’pei stared at bluerider Z’beili sleeping peacefully next to him, his breathing deep and even as J’pei’s own went quick and shallow. Of course there was someone else in this bed with him. There was  _ always _ going to be someone else. It was Z’beili this time, because Kershath had caught Surugath. Had caught her because she didn’t  _ just _ want to fly, not like J’pei, didn’t want it to keep going endlessly or exhaust herself, but  _ wanted _ the male dragons to impress her. Wanted one to catch her eventually, after proving themselves.

(he suddenly remembered being...angry at blue dragons? Interested in them, in how they used the wind, in ways his mind couldn’t quite understand now he was human again, but angry too)

Clothes lay scattered across the floor, more than could belong to two people. J’pei lifted the blankets to confirm they were both naked, and blushed. Z'beili mumbled sleepily at the rush of cold air. J’pei hastily dropped the blanket, then slid off the bed and tucked his half over Z'beili. There. Stay warm. A glance around as he gathered his clothes showed one empty but  _ extremely _ rumpled bed, and one still occupied by two sleepers. How long had J’pei slept? How long had he  _ flown? _ Was it evening now? Night? Inside with the glowbaskets, he couldn’t tell.

Another memory came rushing back, of Z'beili pressing him down on the bed, just one hand on his bare chest so his other hand could quickly pull off J’pei’s shoes and trousers, along with the now-mortifying memory of whining unhappily at the break in kissing. He’d made the same noise a few seconds before  _ that _ as they stumbled into the privacy chamber, when Z'beili broke them apart to tear both their tunics off after unlacing them.

Z'beili had had  _ some _ control of himself during the flight, and J’pei hadn’t. It should have been comforting, that the rider to catch him had cared enough to keep control, and make sure they wouldn’t just chafe themselves dry-humping like so many weyrlings did, or get dirty shoes on the clean bedsheets, or choke themselves on tunic-collars improperly unlaced.

Instead J’pei just felt embarrassed for being out of control himself.

(shocked back into his body, tiny, surrounded by stone, by other riders, reaching out to Surugath in the sky again, feeling Kershath’s hide against hers, and Z’beili’s lips on his, all at once)

_ Surugath’s happy. That’s what matters. _

Re-dressed, J’pei paused at the door back to the Lower Caverns. No one had really gone over etiquette for  _ after _ a flight. Did you thank the other rider for a nice time? Compliment his dragon’s skill? He  _ wanted _ to just leave and go be alone somewhere. He’d wanted to  _ wake up _ alone, even if he hadn’t let himself hope for that, knew it was impossible. He could control his own good manners, at least.

“Hey, Z'beili?”

Z'beili snuggled up tighter in the blanket for a half-second, and then blinked his eyes open. “Huh? Oh, hey J’pei.” He smiled and sat up, thankfully keeping the blanket covering himself. “You sure dress fast. It took me an hour to figure out laces again, after my first flight.”

“I’m getting...klah.” J’pei grabbed at the first thing that came to mind, ignoring the comment about clothes. “Do you want me to bring you some?”

“Shells, I should be asking  _ you _ that,” Z'beili said. He dropped the blanket and reached for his tunic.

“I don’t see why,” J’pei said. Everyone said the tension and irritability would go away after a flight, if you had them to start with. But the longer he stood awkwardly by the door, the more memories came back, and the more he embarrassed he felt.

(forcing dragons out of the air, punching one in the eyes, furious,  _ hurting _ a dragon on  _ purpose, _ something completely unthinkable growing up in the Weyr, and the dead certainty he’d do it again in a heartbeat)

“I’m used to flights and you’re not,” Z'beili said equably, getting into his clothes almost as fast as J’pei had. “It’s your first flight, and no one expects us to be up until our dragons are. Go ahead and relax for once.” He patted the mattress next to him. “Or do you get all energized by sex? D’rees is like that, but he doesn’t nap after.” He gestured to the rumpled bed.

“If you don’t want anything I’m just going to go,” J’pei said, stepping backwards into the nearest curved passage. He felt extremely impolite for leaving before Z'beili could even answer.  _ He was being perfectly nice. You didn’t have to run away like that. _

(swooping through clouds, skimming along them like it was the top of the lake, water vapor trailing off his wings, doing it again and again to spritz Namith, warbling happily)

The passage let out in the main Lower Caverns, not the Bowl. J’pei couldn’t turn around, couldn’t see Z’beili again right now, but he  _ needed _ to get outside. Thank Faranth for Turns of making himself unobtrusive, because the only person to notice him was Ch’joh, perched anxiously on a stool just outside the passage, cradling a basket on his lap.

“Scorch it, I hate waiting,” Ch’joh said, leaping to his feet. “Are you all right? Was it good? Do you need anything?” He had to toss the questions at the back of J’pei’s head, as J’pei walked as quickly as possible out of the Lower Caverns, towards one of the few places he could maybe find real privacy. “I wanted to bring you klah or something but Sanra said we’re not supposed to intrude, and Namith said Surugath was asleep so I couldn’t ask  _ you—” _

Namith swooped down from whatever weyr ledge she’d been lurking on the instant they entered the Bowl. J’pei froze, staring up at her, overwhelmed by the memories of flying with her, delighting in her agility and his own. Out of control, a hazard to everyone else in the air, never wanting it to end.

_ You’re smaller! _ Namith said, nudging his chest with her snout.

“It’s just me now, Namith, Surugath’s asleep,” J’pei explained. He scratched her eye-ridge affectionately.

(rolling on the bed under Z’beili, everything feeling good except the frustration that his spine’s undulations ended where his legs began, not moving all the way through his tail, twined around Kershath’s)

J’pei jammed his shaking hands into his tunic pockets and kept walking. There was just enough late evening sun left for him not to trip over his feet.

“So you really  _ do _ merge minds for the flight?” Ch’joh asked.

“Please don’t— please don’t ask me about it yet,” J’pei said. Evening fell faster all around them. Hopefully, no one else would see where he was going. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Is that why we’re not going to the barracks?” Ch’joh asked.

J’pei glanced around quickly, and mounted the stairs to the nearest junior goldrider’s weyr.

“You don’t want our clutchmates mobbing you with questions?”

The weyr was dark as night. J’pei picked up one of the half-dead glows just inside the door and strode all the way to the back of the sleeping chamber. If he walked quickly enough, the way his legs shook wouldn’t show. Ch’joh and Namith followed him. A full size queen probably couldn’t have gotten past the first chamber, but a young green managed just fine.

“...J’pei, tell me you didn’t refuse a stand-in just so you could answer our clutchmates’ questions about  _ traditional _ mating flights.”

“I’m twenty Turns old, Ch’joh,” J’pei answered, voice cracking. “Adults don’t need stand-ins.”

“The hell they don’t!”

“I’m mature,” J’pei said, the mantra he’d been repeating internally all these months spilling out of his mouth now. “I’m responsible and trustworthy.”

He dropped into a crouch on the floor, glowbasket rolling a few feet away, and pressed his hands over his eyes to block out even that dim light. “I’m steady and reliable and hard-working. I take care of the younger kids.”

His voice broke into a sob, and he heard Ch’joh drop the basket and kneel down in front of him. “Everyone is very proud of me.”

The words came out cracked, broken in strange places.

“I’m going to be a good wingleader some day.”

“Oh, fuck.” Ch’joh wrapped his arms around J’pei. “Oh,  _ fuck.” _

_ We’re proud of you, _ Namith said, curling up around both of them, humming.  _ We love you. Surugath loves you too but she’s asleep. I can get her? _

“Please don’t wake her up, she needs rest,” J’pei said. Ch’joh made a choking sound, and hugged him tighter. For a long time, J’pei just cried, clinging tight to Ch’joh, getting snot and tears all over his tunic. Ch’joh stroked his back, making soft sounds in the same pitch as Namith’s humming.

Mature, responsible, trustworthy, steady, reliable, hard-working, caretaker, none of it  _ mattered _ to anyone else. Surugath was clever, strong, agile, fast, caring, she was the  _ best _ and none of that mattered to anyone else either. All they saw was a dragon and rider pair forced off duty a week at a time, four times a Turn, for everyone else to chase.

No one would ever tie J’pei’s green cording into wingleader knots.

It was never going to happen.

Eventually, cried out, J’pei pulled away. “We’d better get to the dining cavern,” J’pei said, starting to stand up. If they sat in one of the dimmer corners, maybe no one would notice how red his eyes were. Hopefully Z'beili wouldn’t come over; he didn’t want the bluerider to feel bad. “Don’t want to miss dinner.”

“If you want,” Ch’joh said, grabbing his hand. “But that basket’s full of fucking food and some stuff from Anjali and you don’t, actually,  _ have _ to go face everyone right now.”

J’pei sat back down.

“I got, uh, klah in a horn,” Ch’joh said, digging in the basket. “Some of those little pies that’re so easy to pocket, redfruit, some more pies. Anjali gave me numbweed and massage oil because I may have, um, run into her workroom when Namith took off with Surugath and told her to just give me whatever  _ she’d _ want to have if  _ she _ was in a mating flight, and you know she talks to just about everyone when she’s patching them up so she’s heard all about it from the other greens, and did you know she broke up with S’ten?”

“No,” J’pei said, tentatively taking a meat pie out of the basket. He really ought to go to the dining cavern. People would wonder where he was if he didn’t.

“Oh yeah,  _ months _ ago, Esme’s really been letting me down on the gossip lately, this had to have been right after the Spring Games. Says she doesn’t like how he talks about other people. Dumbass thinks they’re just on a break, too, not sure how many times she’s gonna have to turn him down again before it sinks in that they are  _ done _ done.”

Ch’joh kept rambling about Weyr gossip while J’pei ate, occasionally pausing to stuff food into his own face. It felt a little tense, and frantic, and very, very normal.

If they just stayed here for awhile, J’pei wouldn’t have to talk to anyone while keeping his face under control. Wouldn’t have to ignore or respond to teasing, or congratulations. Not to him, not  _ around _ him to the other participants. Wouldn’t have to see if someone told his father’s wing it was over, and they were back from flying extended dawn to dusk patrols.

Wouldn’t risk glancing up to see his father at some distant table, looking past J’pei as if he weren’t there.

~

“Wake up! Wake up, get out!”

Ch’joh jerked upright, rolling out of his bunk into his feet.

“Get uuuup!” K’tis whined, pulling on one of the youngest weyrling’s arm, pulling him from his bunk. “You have to go away!” Everyone else was sitting up and looking around too.

The nearest big door stood open, letting chilly morning air into the barracks. A loud laugh cut across the confused, sleepy babble. N’ris ran up and down the aisle between the empty bunks, arms in the air, whooping. There was a  _ lot _ of room for N’ris to run; the ancients designed the barracks to house several large clutches at a time, when multiple queens laid twice a Turn during a Pass. Orpith was nowhere to be seen.

“Mmmgh,” an exhausted voice groaned behind Ch’joh. He half-turned to see J’pei drag a hand down his face and mumble, “Is the sun even up yet?”

“Just barely,” Ch’joh said. He and J’pei joined K’tis in getting the youngest weyrlings into enough day clothes to be decent in the dining cavern, and then closed the door again once K’tis led them away.

“What are we supposed to do?” Q'resh asked. With K’tis gone and N’ris occupied, unable to hide behind either of them, he hovered beside L’mer, Om'riel, and their dragons next to the door.

“Keep him from giving himself a concussion,” J’pei said. N’ris stopped for a moment, swaying, then spun in a circle and kept running. “And if this had happened outside, keep him from falling into the lake.”

_ But falling in the lake is fun, _ Namith said.

“Not when your brain’s not in your head to help you swim,” Ch’joh told her. “This doesn't seem anything like what happened yesterday.”

“N’bast winds up running in circles, half of Neesuth’s flights,” Om'riel said.

“Some of the older riders do too,” J’pei said, and then mumbled, so quietly Ch’joh almost didn’t hear him, “like the Berserker.” Oh, that was true. Maybe when N’ris aged out of the barracks, he’d punch someone.  _ Too bad J’pei’s not a berserker, _ Ch’joh thought, wishing no one had caught his friend, and then firmly squashed the idea down. J’pei didn’t need  _ any more damned people _ wishing he was anything but what he was.

“We  _ just _ have to make sure he doesn’t get a concussion, right?” Q'resh asked nervously. Mianath curled up beside him, apparently deciding to go back to sleep.

“That’s all,” J’pei confirmed. “You don’t have to stay, if—”

“No,” Q'resh said, frowning. Ch’joh blinked. He’d never heard Q’resh interrupt anyone before. “K’sawa said it‘s awful to wake up alone. We gotta— we need to make sure he’s okay, after.”

J’pei nodded, then stifled a yawn.

_ “You _ should sit down,” Ch’joh muttered, elbowing him. “When did you get to sleep?”

J’pei just blinked, not answering. They’d stayed up in that empty queen’s weyr for hours, until it was late enough they didn’t risk running into anyone crossing the Bowl. Surugath had still been sleeping in Kershath’s weyr, though, and Ch’joh was pretty sure J’pei hadn’t fallen asleep until she briefly woke and sought him out in the barracks.

“Seriously,” Ch’joh said, watching N’ris run. He couldn’t fix much, but he  _ could _ badger J’pei into resting. “He’s doing fine, and we got this. You’re not allowed to trip and get a concussion either.”

Namith wriggled around and nosed J’pei until he finally sat down on the floor, leaning against Surugath. Who promptly draped her wing over him. He snorted, but didn’t try to stand up again.

Eventually N’ris slowed to a walk, and then blinked the dazed look from his eyes, standing just a few bunks away from them all.

“Whoa,” he said. “That was weird.” Then his gaze unfocused again. He turned, fell face-first into the nearest bunk, and wrapped himself around the bedding like he was wrestling it.

“Curtains,” J’pei ordered, from under Surugath’s wing. Ch’joh and L’mer jumped forward, pulling the curtains closed around the bunk. All their beds had them, to help keep in heat along with provide privacy. It was lucky N’ris hadn’t stopped by one of the empty bunks, with just a bare mattress left, the sheets, pillows, and curtains all in storage.

“You know,” Ch’joh said thoughtfully, lifting up Surugath’s wing to join J’pei on the floor, as they all pretended to ignore what was happening. “I think I love Orpith’s timing.”

“The crack of dawn?” L’mer asked.

“Mm-hm.” Ch’joh smirked. “The only dragons awake are either just getting back from patrol or just leaving for one, so if they  _ want _ to chase her they have to get their riders to get all that gear off them in a hurry, or chase her while  _ wearing _ it. And I bet all the ones who were asleep and heard her bugle just ditched their riders in their weyrs.”

Om'riel giggled.

“They’ll have to either go hide at the very back of their weyr,” Ch’joh went on, thinking of the safety advice in the teaching ballad. “Or hope a friend noticed their dragon leaving and comes to get them.” He thought of the day N’bast introduced Anjali to everyone. “Maybe S’ten’s stuck in his weyr. Serve him right.”

J’pei made a sleepy noise of agreement. Ch’joh impulsively draped an arm over his shoulders. J’pei slumped against him with a sigh. Okay. Ch’joh was just going to never move. Ever again.

The others sat down too. L’mer complained that his deck of playing cards was still in his trunk, but going over to get it was just too awkward now. Om’riel rolled his eyes, stood up, walked past the curtained bunk to L’mer’s, and came back with the cards.

_ “Everything’s _ awkward,” Om’riel said, sitting down and shuffling the deck. He tilted his head toward Q’resh. “You told the twins you don’t know Firestone Toss, right? Want to learn?” Q’resh nodded. Om’riel looked over at Ch’joh, who looked down. J’pei’s eyes were closed, his chest moving with slow, even breaths. Ch’joh looked back up and shook his head slightly. Om’riel dealt cards for just three players.

Om’riel was right that everything was awkward right now, Ch’joh reflected, but at least this was better than yesterday. Completely alone in the corridor, no way of knowing if his friend was going through something like the clandestine but  _ fun _ encounters Chojohrnen had had on the road, or like the...other ones. Unable to seek distraction from Namith, unwilling to leave his vigil and seek it from friends. At least Namith had let him know who’d won, after she flew back to the Weyr, leaving her friend to the two-dragons-only part of things. And Ch’joh knew Esme liked Kershath’s rider Z’beili. She wouldn’t like him if he was a creep, right?

Except then  _ who won _ turned out to not matter much at all. Ch’joh looked down at J’pei sleeping against his side, and then over at the curtained bunk.  _ Please let N’ris not freak out, _ Ch’joh thought. Five human clutchmates and their dragons right there to comfort would help, if he did, but his brother must be all the way across the Bowl by now, getting everyone else breakfast. Ch’joh would have to stop holding J’pei and go get K’tis and stay in the dining cavern at  _ least  _ long enough to find someone willing to watch the baby weyrlings and—

Namith nudged her snout against Ch’joh’s chest and blinked her slowly swirling eyes at him. Oh. Right. If they needed K’tis back here, Namith could talk to Everth. Ch’joh scratched Namith’s head-knobs with his free hand, laughing silently at himself. Yeah. This was way better than yesterday.

Finally N’ris shoved back the curtains and stumbled over to everyone else, wearing a blanket over his nightclothes like a cloak.

“I want,” N’ris said, in an exhausted voice, drawing himself up. “A hug.” Q'resh just about tackled him, followed by L’mer and Om'riel. “And,” he said, sounding a little squished but much happier than a moment before, “I want breakfast.”

So they all stumbled across the Bowl to the dining cavern, dropping down around the first table they came to. And then realized they need to actually go get their food. Q’resh, with a determined expression, gestured for N’ris to stay sitting down, and fetched enough breakfast from the serving line for both of them.

“Shells, that’s adorable,” Ch’joh said under his breath. J’pei looked up from a bowl of hot bran he was attempting to eat with his spoon turned the wrong way around, clearly confused. “You really are out of it,” Ch’joh said. He plucked the spoon from J’pei’s grasp, spun it around so it would actually scoop, and put it back between his fingers. “I don’t care what training C’gan has planned today,  _ you’re _ going back to bed.”

Speaking of the man, C’gan stopped by the table of sleep deprived weyrlings as they worked through their belated breakfast. “Well,” he said, hands planted on his fists. “I see I should have started you all on local landmark recognition earlier than I did, with those two early risers.”

Ch’joh glared over his mug of redfruit juice. Couldn’t C’gan have gotten the teasing out of the way when Surugath and Orpith's were still proddy, and snapping at him was excused?

“Surugath was yesterday  _ afternoon,” _ N’ris mumbled around a breadroll, frowning.

“He means they’re only ten months old, not a full Turn yet,” J’pei explained, before C’gan could. “Not time of day.” He looked the Weyrlingmaster in the eye, hiding all signs of his exhaustion. “I’m sure this means they’ll be even more eager to fight Thread than anyone else, when it comes.”

C’gan grinned broadly, the biggest, most sincerely happy expression Ch’joh had ever seen on him. “Well spoken.” He patted their table. “No training today.”

Oh. Well, good.

“And tomorrow’s the rest day,” L’mer said happily, as C’gan walked off.

“Orpith really  _ does _ have good timing,” Q'resh told N’ris, who beamed, proud of his dragon.

“Yeah…” Ch’joh said thoughtfully. He tucked the rest of his breakfast into his pockets, standing up. “I’ll see you all at the lake in a bit, Namith needs oiling.” He left before anyone could respond. Rest days at the Weyr were busier than in Holds or Halls, with patrols still flying and the around-the-clock klah and meals that entailed. And Ninth Month meant tithing trains arriving any time, any day. But they were still quieter than the  _ rest _ of the sevenday, with no Games training or chores that could be scheduled for another day.

Which meant if he could talk to all the girls  _ today… _

~

“You missed Reeth inventing underwater tag,” J’pei told Ch’joh when he came jogging up to the lake from wherever he’d been. Not oiling Namith, who found J’pei’s surprise at his earlier absence from the lakeshore wildly funny.

_ I won! _ Namith said smugly.

“Nobody ‘wins’ at tag,” Ch’joh pointed out, shucking off his outer tunic, and undershirt, then sitting down to get his boots. The feeling of Z’beili’s bare chest against his hands flashed through J’pei’s mind. Ch’joh would feel different, narrower in the shoulders, skin nowhere near as smooth with all those scars.

J’pei took the thought and shoved it away. What he remembered of sex with Z’beili had felt good. His attraction to Ch’joh was as strong as ever. And he did not want those two things to combine. He hadn’t controlled his own actions at all during the mating flight, hadn’t been  _ capable _ of it. He’d  _ hurt other dragons. _ He didn’t want to touch Ch’joh if he wasn’t in control of himself.

_ See, I told you nobody wins tag, _ Surugath said. Tag and swimming were fun. Safe. He could think about that. That was a better thing to think about.

“You  _ can _ win a holding-your-breath contest,” J’pei pointed out. Surugath twisted her neck to give him an affronted look as he oiled her wing-joint. He impulsively kissed her snout and she snorted at him.

Namith said something else to Ch’joh, brushing past J’pei’s mind as even more smugness but no words. Surugath gave  _ her _ an affronted look now, before crouching down to make it easier for J’pei to reach her ridges.

The day passed in a lazy, sunny haze. It was such a  _ nice _ day to have off. As long as he didn’t think about why C’gan had given it to them, about yesterday, about it all happening again in three months. As long as he didn’t  _ think, _ everything was fine.

Which of course meant all the stress crammed itself into his dreams, instead, and he woke up twice in the night. Chased down the side of the mountain, not daring to look behind himself, tripping over his own feet. Running through the archives, a heavy volume clutched to his chest, if he could just shake them off he’d be able to read it, or feed it to Surugath, and her hide would turn a metallic green that no one could ignore.

_ I want a herdbeast, _ Surugath declared, when J’pei jerked awake at dawn. Her eager anticipation and curiosity pushed out the lingering fear from his dreams.

“Do you want to eat one, or just try out that strike Berroth showed you?” J’pei whispered, getting dressed quickly and quietly.

_ I can want both, _ Surugath said. Once they reached the feeding grounds, she left him leaning against the fence, and flew up to the ledge of someone else’s weyr.  _ They’re much slower than wherries, _ she said thoughtfully, eyeing the herd.

_ And much bigger, _ J’pei thought back.

Surugath launched, flapping even higher for a moment before diving straight down. She struck a large herdbeast, and then surprise and pride struck J’pei.  _ I meant to get the one next to it, _ she said, and tore into it happily.  _ This one’s much bigger than that one! _

It was bigger enough, in fact, that Surugath didn’t finish it, and called out for her just-waking clutchmates to help. Onth showed up the fastest, messily crunching down what was left and projecting delight.

_ I’m going to nap now, _ Surugath declared, stretching. J’pei frowned, worried; she hadn’t taken post-meal naps since starting to catch her own. Surugath slunk over the fence and nosed his chest.  _ It’s a nap. You should nap too. _

Faranth knew he probably needed the sleep. Yawning, he walked with her to the sunny side of the lakeshore and settled down in the sand, tucked against her side under one wing.

~

_ We’re so clever, _ Namith said, rolling in the sand a dragonlength from Surugath, trying not to wake her despite really, truly wanting to.  _ We’re the cleverest pair on all of Pern. _

_ Yes, yes we are, _ Ch’joh agreed. He helped Anjali spread a picnic blanket on the grass near the lakeshore, trying to look around and count heads at the same time. He’d gotten her, Gullers, Esme, and Rishall, who’d gotten Tinall, who’d talked to Om'riel and then L’colm and N’bast, and now it seemed half the Weyr was setting up for a picnic in this last sure day of warm weather.

It wasn’t really half the Weyr, Ch’joh knew. Just their clutch and their friends, and maybe one layer out of friends and siblings from that. It was still more people than they’d seen at once since the Hatching Feast.

Ch’joh couldn’t change the Weyr’s shitty attitude about what stand-ins meant for your maturity, and he couldn’t stop riders that never even bothered talking to J’pei from chasing him, and he couldn’t even do what he’d always done before when things got bad.  _ Run _ and  _ help other people run _ were off the table. Even if he could talk J’pei into abandoning the only life he’d ever known, go play Cloaked Robin on Ista or somewhere just as warm...their dragons rising without suitors and burning out wasn’t a great plan.

What Ch’joh  _ could _ do was surround J’pei with people who knew him, the actual him, not some placeholder they kept in their heads for all greenriders. Surround him with people who loved him.  _ And _ keep him from getting all self-conscious by pretending the picnic was for his sisters.

Awake and leaning against Surugath, J’pei sat entertaining a crowd of children. He’d woken up from his nap when Esme first arrived, and been prevented from carrying any baskets or setting up blankets by Tinall’s baby brother Yatin running up with Tolley and Tollara, shouting that Turn’s End had been boring without him and could he  _ please _ tell them all more Clever Reiko stories?

“We’ve  _ got _ to get him to tell one of those at the next meeting,” L’deni murmured, coming over to help with blankets when N’bast dragged Anjali off to talk to Neesuth. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as good at twisting the wording of rules as her.”

“D’nis said he hopes J’pei’s up for singing some of B’sur’s seaholder songs, some day,” Ch’joh said. None of the weyrlings had been to a crafts-and-stories gathering of greens  _ and _ blues, yet, but M’kel said they happened with as much frequency and less planning than the greens-only ones.

“That’d be nice,” L’deni said with a smile. “We all miss B’sur.”

“Hello!” Esme yelled, waving to everyone, when J’pei wrapped up his story. Ch’joh sat down next to him, getting a sunny smile that made his heart do stupid things in his chest. Behind them, Surugath wiggled deeper into the sand with a sleepy whistle.

“Welcome to the ‘oh thank Faranth the latest tithing train was  _ yesterday _ instead of today’ picnic!” Esme waited for quiet, grinning. “It’s also the ‘sweet shells, Gullers’ birthday is next week and I have no patience’ picnic.” With that, Esme sat back down, pulling a basket towards herself. J’pei and Rishall smiled, watching Gullers watch Esme.

“Here!” Esme handed Gullers a broad, thick volume of parchments, one side stitched with twine, bound plainly. For once, Esme looked nervous. “It took me three Turns to get this, so…”

Gullers took the volume with a blank expression, and carefully opened it to the first page. Her eyes went wide. She turned to another page, and another.

“It’s, you know, apprentice copy,” Esme went on, tugging and twisting a strand of her hair. “Not journeyman, so some of them have been crossed out and corrected, but—”

“You got me smithcraft schematics,” Guller said slowly. She looked up. “You got me the  _ new _ ones.”

“Yeah.” Esme gulped. “I did.”

_ “Thank you.” _ Gullers tilted the volume towards Esme, one hand holding it firmly, the other gesturing excitedly. “Did you look through this? Look at this pump design, I have to show Winona this, it’s twice as efficient as what we’ve got cycling greywater right now.”

“Oh, nice,” Esme said, relaxing. With confirmation that three Turns of complicated bartering had paid off, everyone else went back to enjoying the sunshine. Gullers held up a different schematic for Rishall, saying something about the herdbeast sheds that Ch’joh didn't understand, but Rishall was clearly excited about.

“Esme should turn that into a song,” J’pei told Ch’joh. His fingers drummed a rhythm on his leg. “Finding some herbs to dye some yarn to knit a scarf to please the apprentice smith’s crush was just  _ one _ part of all that.”

“How old are the schematics Gullers  _ used _ to work with?” Ch’joh asked curiously.

“The newest? Half a century,” J’pei said. “The oldest are from the last Pass.”

“Oof.” Ch’joh winced. “Even our farmhold had better than  _ that.” _ Of course, that was from smith journeymen coming out and trading repairs for food, not anything they kept on hand.

Down the shore, N’ris and K’tis coaxed their younger siblings onto their dragons, to ride them as they swam slowly in the shallows. Om'riel and Tinall held hands, spinning in circles and giggling. Behind them, Namith proved she had just as little patience as Esme by trilling directly against one of Surugath’s head-knobs, making her jump up to chase her, dropping J’pei and Ch’joh flat on their backs on the sand.

They glanced at each other and burst out laughing.

~

“Today you all learn to fly  _ between,” _ C’gan told the assembled weyrlings. Ch’joh’s grip on Namith’s dangling riding strap tightened. “You all know Benden Weyr and the nearest peaks from the air as well as anyone can.” They’d spent the sevenday since their impromptu break flying, hovering, and examining the local landmarks from all angles. “We’re going to fly down the southern face to the valley lake, and  _ between _ home one at a time. Once you do, you are to stay in the Weyr until Tagath and I return.”

That wasn’t so bad, Ch’joh thought.  _ Between _ was supposed to last longer the farther you went, so if going all the way to Igen took three seconds, maybe this would only take one. If that!

“Always visualize your destination before going  _ between,” _ C’gan said. He spoke with a more serious deliberation than usual, and he was always serious. “Older riders may tell you that you can start your visualization once you’ve already left, in an emergency. This is beyond foolish. There is no emergency so immediate that you cannot take time to visualize.” He sighed deeply.  _ “However _ if you find that the jolt of going  _ between _ briefly knocks your visual out of focus,  _ do not panic. _ Remain calm, and visualize your destination once more. The dragons are doing most of the work; you are merely their guide.”

Om'riel raised his hand. C’gan pointed to him. “Yes?”

“What about  _ betweening _ to the exact spot you’re already in, like they do to dodge in the Spring Games?”

“That’s a Threadfall fighting technique, weyrling, and you’ll learn that after mastering basic travel.” He looked around. “Any other questions? No? All right.”

C’gan gave the dragonrider hand-signal for a wing to mount, then swung up onto Tagath’s neck. Once everyone was mounted and double-checked their safety harnesses, he signaled for them to rise. High above the caldera they settled into the V pattern typical of a wing; C’gan and Tagath at the front as acting wingleader (a position blues typically only took when leading other blues and greens), with one brown, two blues, and three greens making up each arm of the V, in that order. Ch’joh wondered how unevenly numbered clutches with less typical color proportions trained.

Surugath and Namith fell into the end positions. J’pei liked keeping an eye on everyone, and Ch’joh liked being far away from the Weyrlingmaster.

Which today meant going last after everyone else. Ch’joh watched tensely as their clutchmates re-appeared as tiny specks above Benden. They could do this. Namith was the best dragon on all of Pern, in the entire  _ history _ of Pern. And Ch’joh had travelled  _ between _ as a passenger dozens of times since coming to the Weyr. He was used to it by now, right? So it had been over a Turn since the last time, so what?

_ I am an excellent flyer, _ Namith told him confidently.  _ I will be excellent at this too. _

J’pei waved as Surugath flapped up into a higher position, then stared ahead at the mountains, both hands firm on the riding straps. They vanished. Ch’joh caught his breath, counting silently. In three seconds a new tiny speck appeared above the Weyr.

Namith hummed.  _ Surugath says everyone is fine, _ Namith said. Ch’joh let out his breath.  _ She says if we’re scared we can try it tomorrow instead. I am not scared. _ She hummed again.  _ Are you? _

“Yes,” Ch’joh admitted. How was this anything but madness? How did this even  _ work? _ What if he got something wrong, and they stayed there in that icy nothing?

C’gan signaled for them to maintain their hovering position, and Tagath turned on one wing-tip to hover beside them, half a dragonlength away.

_ Tagath says the same thing Surugath did, _ Namith said.  _ I want to try it today. Everyone else did.  _ Between _ is not nothing. How can anything be nothing, when you and I are together? _

Ch’joh laughed shakily. “Philosopher.”

_ Dragon, _ Namith said back primly.

She was right. She would  _ always _ be with him. They could do this.

Ch’joh steadied his breathing and closed his eyes. Held the image of the most distinct feature of Benden Weyr, the Star Stones, in the eye of his mind.  _ Whenever you’re ready— _

Namith took them  _ between. _ Cold. Dark. No, no, no don’t think about— remember the Star Stones—

And they were in the sun again. Ch’joh gasped. He flung himself forward, barely keeping one hand on the riding straps as he wrapped his arms around Namith’s neck, pressing his bare cheek against her warm hide.

_ Ch’joh? _ Namith asked, worried.

“I’m okay,” Ch’joh said, voice smushed. It wasn’t like she needed to hear him to  _ hear _ him. “I just. Need a minute. Or twenty.” He could do cold. Cold was invigorating. He could do dark. Darkness was so often secrecy, safety. He...oh shells he did  _ not _ like cold and dark together. The only way for  _ between _ to be worse would be if it were wet, too, like the sharding ravine.

C’gan signaled for everyone to land and dismount.

“Well done, all of you,” he said, with...was that genuine pride in his voice? Damn, Ch’joh had thought that wasn’t even possible to  _ get _ from C’gan. “Tagath says you all formed complete visualizations, and arrived exactly where you meant to. No one pictured the eastern watch ledge and came out over the western one.”

“Going  _ between,” _ C’gan went on. “Is the second most terrifying thing a dragonrider will ever do in his life. For those who ride and die completely within an Interval, it’s  _ the _ most terrifying. And all of you…” his gaze lingered on Ch’joh, L’mer, and R’shi, “...all of you conquered that fear. We’re very proud of you.”

He clapped his hands. “Right! Endurance training for the rest of the morning. I don’t want any of you going  _ between _ again today, but I do want you checking with your dragons every half hour or so. Do they  _ feel _ like they can go  _ between? _ How tired do they get before they lose confidence? Because I can tell you right now, you want to stop  _ before _ they think they need to.” He signaled the remount. “Tomorrow morning we’ll  _ between _ more while everyone is fresh.”

~

Throwing himself into training with Surugath, doing everything perfectly, setting as good an example of dragonriding as possible, did a fantastic job keeping the mating flight out of J’pei’s head. Unfortunately he couldn’t keep training in his  _ sleep. _ Nightmares drove him up before most dawns. Training harder didn’t stop them, but at least it exhausted him enough that he wasn’t lying awake, alone with his fears.

_ Could stay here next time, _ he thought, heart pounding from a dream of climbing the caldera walls with clawed hands, hissing figures below in the Bowl waiting for him to fall.  _ Stay in the barracks. _ Not wake up with anyone next to him at all. Surugath wouldn’t even be old enough for the Games next spring, they couldn’t fly in the weyrling wing until she was over two. Wouldn’t get their own weyr until after that.

Unless C’gan held him back from graduating. Or none of the wingleaders wanted him as a wingrider. Didn’t trust him with patrols and Threadfall drills, after he hid from this.

He didn’t think like that during the day. He didn’t have to, busy proving himself over and over.

~

“I’m taking bets,” Earl declared casually one dinner. “On how long it is before S’ten’s wingmates  _ openly _ give him crap for losing his weyrmate to a green.”

Everyone glanced to the next table over, where N’bast and L’colm bracketed Anjali. She laughed at some story Om'riel and Tinall, sitting opposite, were telling her. N’bast occasionally put pieces of food from his plate onto hers when he thought she wasn’t looking.

“One half mark says that they tease him for  _ Tinall _ stealing her before they think of the greens,” Esme said firmly, but quietly enough that it wouldn’t carry. J’pei lifted his head a little higher to see farther across the dining cavern, and spotted S’ten frowning over at Anjali.  _ Should have treated her better, _ J’pei thought fiercely. Maybe Weyrleader R’gul restricting Gather attendance could be a good thing, if it kept the brownrider from making time with more hold and craft hall girls that didn’t know how self-centered he was.

“I thought Anjali and Tinall didn’t like girls like that?” Ch’joh asked, just as tactfully quiet as Esme. He sat next to J’pei, constantly looking around the dining cavern, occasionally glaring at people.

“Oh, nobody knows for sure,” Esme assured him. “But it’s  _ always _ a better bet that fools will blame losing women to another woman rather than their own behavior, let alone to a green.”

_ “Is _ she actually weyring with N’bast now?” Ch’joh asked.

“No, Manora gave her a dorm bunk, finally,” Gullers said, before Esme could prevaricate.

“Nobody’s gonna take my bet, huh?” Earl said glumly. “Help me out here, I wanna get more marks before I cut out to who knows where.”

“Volunteer for midden duty, then,” Rishall said dryly. Earl pulled a disgusted face.

“What are we betting on?” wingleader F’lar asked pleasantly. He sat down next to Esme, smiling at her. His wingsecond T’sum sat down opposite J’pei and gave a nod of greeting; T’sum hadn’t asked J’pei’s permission before the mating flight, but his brown Munth had chased Surugath all the same. At least he was always polite when they encountered each other. Thank Faranth F’lar’s bronze Mnementh, at least,  _ hadn’t _ risen.

“How long until wingsecond S’ten’s wingmates give him cra— tease him over a greenrider stealing his weyrmate,” Earl said.

“Forever,” F’lar said. J’pei fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Everyone knows greens don’t steal girls.”

“And how much are you betting on forever?” Earl asked quickly. F’lar laughed.

“Nobody steals anybody,” Gullers said, annoyed. “You can’t steal people.”

“I stole people,” Ch’joh said mildly. Sitting side by side, it was easy for J’pei to notice the tension in his posture at odds with his tone.

Earl frowned. “That...weird crisis thing you told me about, right? Or was it the fostering rule?”

“Both,” Ch’joh said. His hand sat on the bench. J’pei slid his own over until they were just barely brushing. Ch’joh clasped it. “Do those sound like familiar duty ballads to all of you?”

“Remind me,” F’lar drawled, resting an elbow on the table and his head on his hand. His other arm slowly snuck around Esme’s waist.

“A Lord Holder has the power to command anyone to stay in their holds, or in halls within his borders, during a crisis,” Ch’joh said. That  _ had _ come up in the duty ballads, because dragonriders needed to be efficient about who they spent time ordering to take action in a Pass for everyone’s safety. Don’t waste time talking to middling holders or the Crafthall Masters, go straight to the Lord Holder. Let him handle the rest.

“During a Fall, isn’t it?” T’sum said with a frown of his own.

Ch’joh’s grip tightened. J’pei squeezed back. “The Charter only says ‘crisis’, which I imagine a Fall counts as. Anyone who disobeys can be punished as the Lord Holder sees fit.” He smiled sharply. “And the Charter allows for so many different punishments, including eviction. But it doesn’t define a crisis very well. If you over-tithe and create your own crisis, does that count? Who’s going to stop you? Not the people you just kicked out of their hold for disobedience.”

“You’re saying Lord Holders might arbitrarily confine people to their holds.” F’lar surmised. “To what ends?”

Ch’joh shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t pretend to understand Lords, but I’ve seen it done to clear out a choice location for some flunky.” He twirled his fingers in the air. “Where it gets complicated is the Charter saying they’re  _ duty-bound _ to help foster between holds. So you can break a mill dam to flood a valley and tell the family at the top of the hill they can’t go outside until this crisis is over...but if their daughter or son was scheduled to go live in some hold two valleys over, you  _ have _ to help, if not fix the flood, get those children out and to their destination.”

“How does this lead to you stealing people?” T’sum asked curiously.

“Charter also says Lord Holders can change a fostering arrangement if they claim it’s for ‘the good of the Hold’,” Ch’joh said. J’pei’s fingers tingled from the pressure. “Some of those flunkies want a nice new hold, and some nice new teen girls to fill it up with—”

“Well I’ve lost my appetite,” T’sum said, dropping his utensils.

“I lost track of how many we rescued,” Ch’joh said, voice deliberately casual, musing.  _ Fax’s guards are fucking awful, but at least they cut clear deals, _ he’d told J’pei a lifetime ago. “One of them murdered her escorts just a day out from the hold. Messy. We covered it up as a fight between the two men, with some wild wherry scavenging marks for good measure.”

“And now I’ve lost mine,” F’lar said dryly, but he didn’t actually stop eating. “And your ‘rescues’ were theft?”

“Illegally taking something belonging to the Lord Holder? Sounds like theft to me, and to the bullyboys that caught us at it.”  _ It was a job, _ he’d said.  _ It was reliable. I was good at it. I was good at fighting, too _ . J’pei wanted his hand back so he could wrap his arms around Ch’joh and keep the world away.

“I thought you didn’t want to star in ballads,” Rishall said in a tone that couldn’t decide between ‘teasing’ and ‘horrified’. “But there you were playing Cloaked Robin.”

Esme forcibly steered the conversation back to lighter topics, and Ch’joh released his death grip on J’pei’s hand. J’pei tried to be subtle about kneading feeling back into his fingers, but still saw Ch’joh wince and a moment later Namith said  _ Ch’joh asked me to ask Surugath to tell you ‘sorry’ but I think it’s shorter if I just tell you. _

“It’s okay,” J’pei whispered. Ch’joh grimaced. J’pei pressed his shoulder against Ch’joh’s again; he could handle a lot more than pins-and-needles in his hand to make Ch’joh feel better.

After dinner, as everyone deposited their dishes at the clean-up end of the buffet line, T’sum touched J’pei’s elbow lightly. “Doing all right?”

“Fine,” J’pei said, confused. T’sum was polite, but they’d never talked much. He’d been one of Rally’s many friends before Impressing in the same clutch as F’lar, not an age-mate of J’pei’s. Then recently there’d been the awkwardness of everyone predicting T’sum wouldn’t last in the picky bronzerider’s wing, even as F’lar had scouted candidate Junpei as a potential wingrider when expecting him to Impress brown. “You?”

“Always,” T’sum said, his usual easy smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Thought I’d check after that crowded flight you had.”

J’pei froze. It wasn’t just him, thinking that had been a strangely high number of suitors chasing Surugath. “That was nearly two weeks ago,” he said, a rude response to someone worried about you. He didn’t want to  _ talk _ about it.

“The wing’s always busy,” T’sum said, fake smile turning into a genuine wince.

_ “You,” _ Ch’joh growled from behind them. T’sum jumped, dishes rattling. “Munth wasn’t one of those browns that just  _ dove, _ was he?”

“Shells, no!” T’sum said, horrified. “Munth likes showing off, not…” T’sum shifted his grip on the dishes to wave one hand.  _ “That.” _

“Good,” Ch’joh said curtly. “Anyone who tries that on Namith is getting clawed to pieces.” He stayed close by J’pei until they were outside, and promptly asked if he wanted to climb the stone awning of the gear shed to watch the sunset. J’pei nodded, throat tight.

“I wasn’t gonna bring it up,” Ch’joh said, once they were sitting, their dragons just out of sight in the barracks. “But he’s right. That crowd was strange. Too many browns and bronzes compared to the blues. And M’kel told me browns and bronzes usually split up sort of evenly, in the group flights, because the  _ dragons _ want to catch a mate even if their  _ rider _ wants them practicing for the queen, and they’re all too arrogant to think of the blues as competition.”

“...everyone says Surugath is going to be big,” J’pei said slowly. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t want to  _ think _ about this. But...but it was  _ going to happen again _ and ignoring it was, he knew, not really a good idea. “And they all watched us in training, they knew she has endurance, like the golds.”

“But she’s  _ going _ to be big, she’s not there yet,” Ch’joh pointed out. “And everyone says true endurance takes Turns to build up to. She’s not just practice.”

“Maybe the other dragons had lost flights for Berroth and Ledbuth before,” J’pei said.

“What, and thought they had a better chance with Surugath?” Ch’joh chewed on that audibly for a minute, making little  _ hm’s _ and  _ hmph’s _ aloud. As he did, the last rays of the sun vanished over the caldera’s edge. “At least J’son’s Tindoth went after Berroth, so D’nis doesn’t have to follow through on that threat for Aldamth to interfere.”

“I forgot about that,” J’pei said. “The arm twisting stood out more.” He leaned back, to watch the stars come out. Since B’don and A’jellan had left as D’nis made the threat, and might not have even heard, did that mean he wouldn’t follow up on it? “P’trikor told me he sees Halakirth in nearly every flight B’don isn’t on patrol. Apparently that diving maneuver means if he loses, he loses early, so he’s got the energy to enter a second flight if there’s a later one the same day.”

“Faranth’s Teeth, I’m glad humans don’t have to run marathons before sex,” Ch’joh muttered. He stretched, then shivered. J’pei unwrapped his shawl to pass over.

“Keep it on,” Ch’joh said. “I’m fine.” He shivered again.

“My jacket’s better than yours,” J’pei pointed out. They could go inside, warm up, but the part of him that had jolted out of Surugath’s flight into the stone tunnels of Benden wanted to stay out here, wanted to watch the stars slowly fill up the sky.

“Well when you put it like that,” Ch’joh said dryly. J’pei draped the shawl over his shoulders. Ch’joh reached up and clutched the dangling ends to his chest. “Thanks.”

“Mm.”

Ch’joh spoke again when the stars brightened into recognizable constellations. “So Halakirth plays the numbers, Botelath was interested enough for P’trikor to notice and be  _ fucking polite _ about it, that leaves…” He clicked his tongue softly, counting. “Six other browns, and those four bronzes.”

“And all the blues,” J’pei reminded him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The first  _ first _ flight in five Turns. Maybe the dragons were just  _ bored.” _

“What a delightful reason to pursue someone,” Ch’joh said dryly. “And our dear Orpith got a scant half dozen that she tied all in knots.”

“Maybe Surugath will rise at the crack of dawn too, if I ask nice enough,” J’pei mumbled. Ch’joh patted his shoulder. “At least we know Dorth was really interested in her; A’jellan  _ hates _ me.”

“...huh,” Ch’joh said.

“He’d try to talk Dorth out of it, if it was just boredom or curiosity.”

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said, very quietly. “Of course.”


	16. Boil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Autumn

Autumn deepened, training intensified, and so did Surugath’s appetite. With all the  _ between _ practice they were doing, often with multi-hour long flights away from the Weyr first to practice for eventual patrols, it was no wonder she needed to keep eating over three times a sevenday.

“Are you turning that all into energy or mass?” J’pei asked her, as she struck down her second herdbeast of the week. She still split them with other dragons, only able to tackle whole wherries in one sitting, but J’pei swore she left less herdbeast for her dining mates each time. Except for Orpith, their clutchmates had slowed down to two kills a sevenday, though it was a little hard to track with the greens taking turns sharing with Surugath.

_ I am working very hard and I am very hungry, _ Surugath informed him.

“The Old Aunties said you might keep growing all the way through your second or third Turn,” J’pei told her. “Maybe you’ll get as big as Monlath.” G’nes’s green outstripped most of the blues. Surugath hummed speculatively at the idea.

Training delighted them both; flying together, seeing new places, grasping a little more freedom with each destination they learned. Watching their clutchmates grow more confident. Even Ch’joh was enjoying himself again, adjusting to journeys  _ between _ with Namith.

“You all know the major Holds, Halls, and Weyrs of the Eastern Claw now,” C’gan said, pacing up and down their line one morning in the later half of Tenth Month. The angle of the sun painted Surugath’s hide a deeper green than Namith’s, both of them more vibrant than the dying grass of the Bowl. “It’s time to start learning the Western Claw. Today Tagath will share my memories of High Reaches with you…”

Next to J’pei, between their dragons, Ch’joh sucked in a sharp breath. Then another. J’pei turned to ask what was wrong and saw his face going pale under the deep summer tan. Namith abruptly shrieked and flung her wing over her rider, knocking J’pei off his feet and startling all the other dragons into jumping away from her.

_ Oh, shit, _ J’pei thought, hearing C’gan echo the sentiment out loud. He pushed himself to his feet. Between each of Namith’s shrieks, he heard Ch’joh’s loud, rapid breathing. Surugath keened.

“Wasn’t expecting a sharding panic attack over  _ weyrling training,”  _ C’gan said, fingers in his ears to block out the shrieks, grimacing. “Can’t calm him down without getting past her, can’t calm  _ her _ down without calming him. You have any idea what caused this?”

“He nearly did this when we heard about Ruatha, sir,” J’pei said, fingers in his own ears too. “Wasn’t High Reaches Fax’s first Hold?”

“We’d visit the Weyr first, but freeze it, you’re probably right.” Namith’s shrieks turned into relatively quieter hissing, but she snapped her teeth at Everth for getting too close. “Listen, I’ll reschedule training to tackle those areas last, we’ll get through the Midlands and the southern parts of the Western Claw first. Can you calm him down?”

J’pei nodded, hoping he wasn’t about to make a liar of himself. C’gan turned to chivy everyone else away, and J’pei slowly stepped towards his friend’s hissing, protective dragon.

“Namith?” J’pei said, stopping before getting as close as Everth had. Surugath huddled next to him, still keening. J’pei kept his breathing slow, and tried to send out feelings of safety, of warmth, drawing on memories of his grandfather and mother’s arms. “Namith, it’s okay. We’re not going anywhere today. No one’s going to make Ch’joh go back there.”

He held out one hand, and took a step forward. Namith hissed, mantling the wing that wasn’t over Ch’joh, but didn’t snap her teeth. J’pei took another step forward.

“I know this is scary. You’ve never seen him do this before.” J’pei thought of the day out in the oil pod marshes, or in their dorm months after Turn’s End. “Just that one day we all felt scared, that emotion storm this winter. And that was so long ago.” Another step. Another. His hand pressed against her snout. The hissing made his skin buzz. “Please let me help.”

Surugath made herself small against the grass, legs and wings tucked tight, neck stretched out to look up at her friend, keening turned into a worried croon.

Namith stopped hissing. She whined, a high, anxious sound that hurt to hear.  _ Don’t want to go! _

“Neither of you has to go anywhere,” J’pei promised. “Nobody’s going to make you. You’re safe.”

Namith whined again. Then she lifted her wing, just enough for J’pei to duck under. He kept one hand on her side as he tentatively stepped forward.

“Ch’joh?”

“I have to  _ help,” _ Ch’joh gasped out between panicked breaths. “Dragonriders protect Pern, save everyone— couldn’t go this spring, couldn’t— I don’t  _ want _ to—”

“You don’t have to,” J’pei repeated.

“I don’t want to go, _ I don’t want to go—” _

“All you need to do is breath,” J’pei said. He got close enough to press their foreheads together, breathing slow and steady. “You don’t have to go anywhere. You’re here. You’re safe.”

He didn’t know how long they stood there, as the morning light gleamed through Namith’s wing, turning them both green. Didn’t know how long it took for Ch’joh to stop calling himself a coward, to stop trying to explain himself and just breath, to grab J’pei’s hand.

“...is C’gan mad?” Ch’joh asked, when they were both kneeling on the grass, foreheads still pressed together.

“No,” J’pei said

“I thought I’d be okay,” Ch’joh said, his voice a wreck. “I’m not even  _ from _ High Reaches.” He suddenly looked up from his knees, lips twisting into a wry smile. “I never told you, did I. Never told anyone. I’m from Tillek. A little nowhere farmhold too far from either coast to get good fish.”

“Nerat’s got better fish than Tillek anyway,” J’pei said, surprising Ch’joh into laughing.

“Yeah,” Ch’joh agreed, laughter broken by hiccups. “Yeah, better fish over here.”

~

Ch’joh hid in the barracks for most of the day, too freaked out to handle the wide open, indefensible space of the Bowl, and mortified by the whole incident. J’pei didn’t spill people's personal business, but their entire weyrling class and teacher had seen him forget how to breathe right and terrify his own dragon. It’d be all over the Weyr soon.

He forced himself to go to dinner anyway, instead of depleting his hidden stash of food in the barracks even more. If he kept J’pei between him and everyone else maybe they’d leave it alone long enough to forget about it.

_ I am here, _ Namith reminded him as he walked into the dining cavern. She perched on top of one of the retired dragons who sunned in the Bowl, in easy sight of the main entrance to the Lower Caverns.  _ I can come closer! _

“Anjali would be sad if you stepped on the herb garden,” Ch’joh said, sidling along the buffet line. The junior herbalist and healer was, in fact, next to him in line, delicately balancing dishes on fingers stained by purple tubers, a smear of dark blue plant goop marring her forehead and kerchief.

Ch’joh knew who everyone within three yards of him was. Knew which of them he could take in a fight and which it would be better to distract. Knew he didn’t need to, but tracked it all anyway.

Anjali waited until they were all sitting down, careful to let Ch’joh take an end of the bench along the wall, before she leaned close and quietly confessed, “I can’t go home either.”

Ch’joh briefly paused his vigilant scan of the dining cavern (C’gan kept wandering around, talking to wingleaders for some reason) to give her a look of sympathy. He remembered her talking animatedly about her family, when they still had chores together. They hadn’t  _ sounded _ the type to disown her for a youthful romantic affair.

“I had three suitors, when I left,” Anjali said, smiling sadly at him. “I only just found out from my sister, when I went to the autumn Gather, how furious two of them are at the dragonrider’s ‘theft’.” She looked down at her hands, delicately shredding salad leaves over her stew bowl. “They’d make more trouble for my father, if I returned and still spurned them.”

“That sucks,” Ch’joh said. He wanted to reach out and pat her arm consolingly, but he just wasn’t comfortable moving his hands so far from his knife.

“It is what it is,” Anjali said with a shrug.

“What’d you mean,  _ the _ autumn Gather?” Ch’joh asked, before she could do anything horribly nice like ask how he was feeling.

Esme and Rishall both groaned from farther down the table. “Dad’s been a stick-in-the-mud about outweyr safety since Hath won,” Esme said. Ch’joh’s eyes automatically sought out the Weyrleader in the crowd, but there was no sign of him or his wing. They must be out on patrol, or at Games practice. “Even if the scouts say a given Hold is safe for everyone to visit, they pick just  _ one _ Gather a season, so as many Weyrfolk go together as possible, instead of just a handful of us at a time across a lot.”

“He hasn’t let up on the rules for reporting destinations and tasks to the watch pair, either,” Rishall said, leaning around Esme. “The wingseconds are grumbling that it makes masking Games training with bonus patrols or doing it somewhere nobody can spy on you a lot harder, and they think it’s going to hurt their chances.”

“Bet Sh’xsa’s thrilled about that,” Ch’joh said dryly. That old man drilled his wing as hard as F’lar did, and they’d only just barely won the Spring Games this Turn. Rumor had it his sneaky training regimen usually gave him more of an edge. Ch’joh frowned. Sh’xsa’s bronze Calanuth was one of the dragons to chase Surugath. The gossips had laughed at his failure, at a wily old experienced chaser not predicting Surugath whalloping him in the eyes.

“Oh, none of the wing _ leaders _ are complaining aloud,” Rishall said, with a derisive snort.

“Just spending way more time down here than they used to,” Esme said scornfully. “Over half of them supported Dad, but now they’ve got a Weyrleader instead of a council again, all of a sudden they want to prove to the rest of us how much better a leader  _ they’d _ be than him.”

“Uh...huh…” Ch’joh said slowly, an unpleasant thought growing stronger in his mind. “That’s...interesting.”

~

Standing in a different order the next morning, J’pei realized that it wasn’t the angle of the sun making Surugath a darker shade of green than Namith. He ran his hand along her side, puzzled. Dragonhide shifted color all the time, so no group of one type was ever truly uniform, but this difference seemed stronger than usual.

Before J’pei could see if any other greens were as dark as Surugath, C’gan came striding over with three other riders.

“Change of plan today, weyrlings,” C’gan said, coming to stand with his hands on his hips in front of them. The new riders’ three dragons spiraled down to land by Tagath. “Had to get permission from their wingleaders to borrow all of them, so pay attention. We usually save this lesson for those of you about to join the weyrling wing in the Spring Games, but in light of yesterday, well, this just seemed better.”

C’gan pointed to each of the rides in turn. “P’trikor of brown Botelath, K'sawa of blue Haworth, G’nes of green Monlath, and—”

Neesuth swooped down from her weyr, chirping, and N’bast hastily dismounted, babbling apologies until his feet hit the grass.

“—and N’bast of green Neesuth.” C’gan briefly pressed his fingers to his temples. “They’ll talk all of you through ways to calm yourself, your dragon, or your wingmates down when one of you is injured. In an emergency, metallics can command your dragons to land, or stay still, or give each other space. A true queen can calm them down herself. But most of the time it’ll be up to you.”

He stepped back, gesturing for the four guests to step forward. They split the class up by color, C’gan saying the different types of dragons reacted somewhat differently to their and their riders’ injuries.

G’nes and N’bast had a lot of experience between the two of them; Monlath was good at soothing other dragons, and Neesuth was both incredibly high-strung and incredibly distractible. J’pei listened intently to everything the two riders had to say. Ch’joh’s panic attack and Namith’s reaction to it had been terrifying. What if it happened to someone in the air? Or the dragon wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, the way Namith sometimes did?

When they broke up for lunch, Ch’joh jogged over to talk quietly with P’trikor for a minute. The brownrider only shrugged at whatever questions Ch’joh asked him.

They went back to  _ between _ practice the next day, learning Ista Weyr’s landmarks. Under that bright tropical sun J’pei saw Orpith’s hide was nearly as dark as Surugath’s. Maybe it was related to growth rates or metabolism; Orpith was smaller, and stuck to wherries instead of herdbeasts, but she killed just as often.

Namith and Reeth, under Ista’s sun, took on a brighter shine than anyone else. C’gan cussed under his breath when he noticed, pulled their riders aside briefly, and told the class that tomorrow they’d all be back to training strictly within the caldera, so they’d better get as much as they could out of Ista today.

J’pei holed himself up in the gear shed after dinner, intent on making sure none of the sharp turns and aerial rolls tomorrow snapped any harnesses. He kept having to pause and shake his hands out, stiff from holding on tight to riding straps lately. He’d have to ask some of the older greens how they kept their fingers nimble enough for craftwork in the evenings, when they were a-dragonback all day.

“J’pei?”

He looked up to see Om'riel standing in the entryway of the gear shed, twisting his hands together nervously. Om'riel looked over his shoulder, then at J’pei’s feet. “Um. I wanted to ask. When you had your mating flight, did it hurt?”

J’pei froze for a split second, before making himself force his shoulders down. Whatever was bothering Om'riel clearly made him nervous enough, he didn’t need to deal with J’ei’s embarrassment too. “No,” J’pei said. He hung up the surplus gear he’d been mending and patted the workbench next to him. “I can hear a dozen questions piled up behind that one, Om'riel, go ahead and ask.”

The younger rider sat in a tumble of limbs that quickly tangled together, ankles crossed, twisting hands on his lap. Nearly three Turns younger than J’pei, and it felt like more. How long had he been looking out for Om'riel? Their first time on the Hatching sands felt so long ago.

“Did you have to, um,” Om'riel started, twisting his hands faster. “Oh shards this is embarrassing...did you have to  _ prep _ first, so it wouldn’t hurt?”

J’pei managed not to freeze this time. Sex talk was really more Ch’joh’s field than his, but Namith didn’t have any more experience than Reeth. Any older rider would be happy to reassure Om’riel, but J’pei was the only one he  _ knew. _ Shells, had Om'riel even experimented before Impressing? He’d never asked, back when they were Junpei and Omoriel, if sneaking out with L’colm and N’bast had led to anything like that.

“Z'beili and I didn’t engage in any acts that required preparation,” J’pei said, choosing his words carefully. “From what I remember, we ground our hips together, and might have used our hands.” Physical  _ mechanics _ -wise, it hadn’t been anything more than what J’pei used to try on his own, when green flights first started affecting him in adolescence. Physical  _ desire _ -wise it had been unimaginably more intense. The emotional feedback between riders and dragons was what made it overwhelming.

“So...so you  _ don’t _ have to, um, have intercourse?”

“That’s right, you don’t.” J’pei glanced over at Om'riel from the corner of his eye. He looked as uncomfortable as J’pei felt. “Do you remember what D’rees told us?”

“Everything’s running on instinct,” Om'riel recited. “So if your partner is someone you’ve been with  _ outside _ of flights, whatever you usually get up to is what’ll happen. Unless it’s oral, because that puts both of you too…” Om'riel paused, trying to remember the phrase the older greenrider had used. “Too...um…”

“Out of alignment,” J’pei prompted.

“Thanks. Too out of alignment with your dragons. And if you  _ haven’t _ been with the other rider before, but you both usually do similar things, you’ll do those things. But...but if...but if you two usually do really  _ different _ things, we don’t know what’ll happen.”

“The b-rider can try to keep some self-control, right after the catch,” J’pei said. Z’beili had, at least long enough to get them undressed. J’pei hadn’t at  _ all, _ which everyone said was normal for greenriders. It didn’t make him feel any better. “Most riders want their partners to feel good.”

“The Lover might help me even if it hurts,” Om'riel said, very quietly. J’pei looked at him, worried. He lifted his arm tentatively. Om'riel took the invitation and leaned against him, sighing as J’pei carefully wrapped his arm over his shoulders and gently hugged him. “I’m really scared.”

“...I was scared too,” J’pei admitted. Om'riel looked up at him, eyes wide. “Doing something completely new, being out of control of my body, my emotions. That really scared me.” It still scared him, which wasn’t reassuring, so he didn’t say it. “But I knew Surugath would be with me the whole time, and when it happened, I had fun.” He  _ had _ had fun during the flight, even if he’d fallen apart afterwards. “Have you asked N’ris what his flight was like?”

“That’s different,” Om'riel said, grabbing his knees to stop his hands twisting, looking back down at the floor. “N’ris got to stay in the barracks. He made out with a  _ pillow.” _

“You can stay in the barracks too,” J’pei said.

“But I’m seventeen already,” Om'riel reminded him, confused.

“You don’t have your own weyr yet, and you’re not in a wing.”

“Neither are you.”

“That’s true. But just because I did something, doesn’t mean you have to.” Om'riel’s shoulders suddenly lost most of their tension. Thank Faranth. “I had a lot of time to think about it, I knew several of the riders whose dragons were interested in Surugath, and I trusted them. I wasn’t actually expecting her to get as big a crowd as she did.” He frowned in recollection. It still didn’t make sense. “That was a surprise.”

The worry grew.  _ The first  _ first _ flight in five Turns, _ he’d pointed out to Ch’joh.  _ Are they just all assuming you’ll be out of the barracks? _ Esme had asked. Everyone knew N’ris was too young to leave the barracks, and that Ch’joh claimed D’nis as his stand-in. Had people assumed the same about Om’riel as they had about J’pei? He tried to remember if any older dragons had been paying extra attention to Reeth recently. Their clutchmates certainly hadn’t, exhausted from training. And only a few dragons had started watching them again, after C’gan first chased the spectators away from training. It was a lot harder for them to lurk now the weyrlings flew out of the caldera so often.

“Has someone been bothering you?” J’pei asked.

The tension came back. “You remember when D’nis chased off B’don for Esme?”

“Yes.” The image of B’don’s face smashed against the table made for a very satisfying memory. But he hadn’t been the only creep that night, had he? “D’nis told the other riders there to stay away from us, too.”

“D’nis told them to not chase us without our  _ permission,”  _ Om'riel corrected. “Tindoth’s been watching Reeth at the feeding grounds lately.”

The feeding grounds, where C’gan  _ wouldn’t _ be keeping an eye on everyone. That wasn’t good.

“And J’son’s always there too,” Om’riel went on. “And he said...he thinks I’m cute. Like it was some revelation. I  _ know _ I’m cute.” He threw one hand up in frustration. “He says Tindoth’s really skilled and he’ll impress Reeth but only if we  _ let _ them and— and—” Om'riel twisted his hands together again. “He says  _ everyone _ has intercourse, and that he’d be gentle but the other riders  _ wouldn’t, _ and that if I don’t give them permission to chase us someone rough will catch us, and that no matter how much fun  _ Reeth _ has,  _ I’ll _ get hurt.”

“That’s...wrong, of him,” J’pei said, struggling to keep the sudden rage from his voice. He squeezed Om'riel in another side-hug, prompting the younger greenrider to turn his face towards him and start crying into his shirt. J’pei shifted on the bench so he could hug him properly, making soft soothing sounds. It distracted him from the urge to hunt down J’son and tear his throat out. “That’s coercion. Do you want me to talk to his wingleader?”

“Sh’xsa won’t care!” Om'riel cried, voice muffled. “And it’s not just J’son. B’don and M’tin were watching training last week, and when N’bast and L’colm were showing me that spot in the reeds to take Reeth when she’s itchy, we had to walk by them, and they said...they said stuff about us. About what they wanted to do when they catch us. N’bast yelled back that their dragons had never caught Neesuth and never would, but L’colm told me Halakirth caught Badoth last summer, and it was  _ awful.” _

J’pie briefly indulged in the mental image of hurling all three harassers into the midden heap, and then grabbing wingleader Sh’xsa and M’tin’s wingleader S’lel by the neck to grind their faces in the mess.  _ This is what you’re ignoring! _ But none of them were here, and he wouldn’t be able to get more than a finger on a bronzerider before their dragon intervened. He let the image go and focused on the scared teenager that  _ was _ here, and needed help.

“Om'riel, those riders are behaving  _ very _ badly, and if their wingleaders weren’t  _ completely incompetent, _ they’d have been put on punitive duties the very first time they bullied you and your friends. But since that’s not the case, would you be embarrassed if Ch’joh or I stuck with you until Reeth’s first flight is over?”

“Yes,” Om'riel said. He pulled away, so J’pei lifted his arm back off. Om'riel nodded to himself and looked straight at J’pei. “But I’d rather be embarrassed than scared.” J’pei nodded an acknowledgement. Om'riel’s gaze unfocused a little, staring vacantly at the flying gear hung up all around them. “...Reeth says she’s gonna roll in the lake first so she’s slippery.” He giggled.

“She’s a very clever dragon,” J’pei said solemnly, letting Om'riel see the corner of his mouth twitch up in an almost-smile. That earned another giggle. Good. Feel better. “Does  _ she _ have an opinion about this whole barracks versus privacy chamber mess?”

“She doesn’t really understand that part,” Om'riel said, scratching at the back of his head with a sheepish grin, immediately more relaxed now they were talking about the best possible subject in the world; his dragon. “I don’t think she really understands her part, either, really. She plays tag with the other greens a lot, and they’ve  _ told _ her about their mating flights, usually right after one, but as far as she knows, the only reason you  _ let _ someone catch you is so  _ you _ can chase everyone.”

“Ah.”

“...if I’m not in the barracks when Reeth rises, will you make sure I get there?” Om'riel asked.

“Yes.” He’d hoist Om’riel over his shoulders and  _ sprint _ if he had to.

“What if you’re not there?” The anxious tone came back. “What if everyone’s busy? Out doing  _ between _ practice?”

“How about we talk to my sisters?” J’pei said, instead of pointing out C’gan’s temporary change in the training regimen. “Even if they’re busy, they’ll be  _ here, _ and I bet Tinall would help too.”

“Gullers broke A’jellan’s wrist once,” Om'riel said, awed by the memory. He beamed. “Thanks, J’pei.”

~

“Any other time, you can count on me to break whatever noses you need broken,” Ch’joh said, when J’pei asked him to help chase creeps away from Om'riel. “But I’m just as likely to suddenly lose track of my surroundings as he is, the next few days.” He winced as J’pei flashed the barest trace of a self-recriminatory,  _ ‘I should have thought of that’ _ expression. “Why don’t we talk to the Circle?”

J’pei flipped so instantly from tense fear and protective anger to sheer relief that Ch’joh could  _ see _ the change. The fact that all it took was a reminder of older adults they could appeal to made Ch’joh want to travel back in time and yell at half the adults from their weyrbrat days. The Circle only had authority among other greenriders, but at least they  _ gave _ a damn, and didn’t think J’pei being  _ responsible _ meant he had to do  _ everything. _ He wanted to yell at J’pei himself, too.

_ Why didn’t you ask me to chase the creeps away for YOU? _ Ch’joh thought angrily.  _ Why do you only ever ask for help for someone ELSE? _

J’pei had convinced C’gan to get rid of training’s spectators by saying they were a distraction, never even  _ trying _ to say, “They make me uncomfortable.” Like he thought C’gan wouldn’t care. Soaked up every story and song about the three spirits, but never directly asked the older greenriders to tell him more about the Berserker or Little Sibling, about the long-ago rider that fought anyone to lay hands on him.

_ Why are you so damn resigned to this shit? I hate this! _

Shards, Ch’joh half-hoped someone  _ did _ try something with Om’riel. Fights were awful, terrifying, he didn’t want that violence happening here, not really. Yet the desire to feel bone crunch against his fist and shake blood off it howled inside him like a gale.

“We don’t even have to wait for tomorrow,” Ch’joh said, instead of voicing any of that, forcing a grin. “I’ll ask Namith to find out from their dragons which riders are around.”

D’rees, the youngest member of the Circle, landed outside the barracks on Berroth just minutes later, striding up to the three green weyrlings waiting there with a manic grin that looked almost as angry as Ch’joh felt. “What the  _ fuck _ kind of crap is J’son trying to pull? No, don’t tell me yet, M’kel’s coming.”

M’kel ambled over from the dining cavern sipping from a travel horn of klah. He wasn’t the oldest in the Circle, but he had a few decades on D’rees and far more patience. His green was likely still napping with the even older dragons at that end of the Bowl. “Evening,” M’kel said, in the same calm, soothing voice he used to break up spats in the Lower Caverns. “Daleth tells me some b-rider is telling you all lies again.”

Om’riel had let J’pei tell Ch’joh the problem, but now with the Circle riders he blurted it out himself, starting with the incident in the dining cavern. D’rees started cracking his knuckles partway through, and M’kel ran a hand through his greying hair.

“That’s worse than I expected,” M’kel said, when Om’riel stammered to a stop.

“I’m gonna string a gitar from their guts,” D’rees declared.

“You’ve got two more months before you can get away with that,” M’kel pointed out, not even glancing at him. Two months? What did that mean— oh. Right. Berroth rose a month ago, the same time as Surugath. She had a typical three month cycle, D’rees had a reputation for excessive proddiness, so...he probably couldn’t  _ really _ get away with  _ gutting _ another rider. But losing his temper and taking a swing? Tackling and biting someone? Maybe. Ch’joh cracked his own knuckles and filed that thought away for later.

“I think the key, here,” M’kel went on. “Is that Om'riel came to you, and you came to us, and now everyone knows for sure J’son was lying, so if he tries it again you can tell him with utmost confidence that he can go lose his dick  _ between.” _

Om'riel’s eyes went huge, and then he burst into giggles. J’pei pressed his lips together, eyes crinkling at the corners from hidden mirth. Ch’joh found himself laughing loudly, startled, anger over everything spinning on its heel into amusement. Shells. He wanted to see J’son’s _ face _ if Om’riel told him that. Or the other fuckers, like all those damned riders from Surugath’s flight!

...Ah, shit the others. J’son was the only one D’nis had managed to warn off directly, and here he was coercing the poor kid. The others just went straight to harassment. Who  _ knew _ what they’d do when Reeth rose. Ch’joh made himself swallow the laughter, take a few deep breaths, and speak up. “That doesn’t solve the problem of B’don and M’tin.”

“No, you’re right,” M’kel said, sighing. He focused on Om’riel. “Daleth says you wanted more people around?”

“Just until Reeth’s flight is over,” Om'riel said. “Just...in case she takes off while I’m at lunch or the other side of the lake or something, to help me back to the barracks.”

“Oh, we can do  _ that,” _ D’rees said. He smacked M’kel’s shoulder. “You talk to all the creeps’ wingleaders, for form’s sake, I’ll get everyone’s schedules and put together escort duty.” He reached out and ruffled Om'riel’s hair. “We’ll keep you safe, don’t you worry.”

_ ‘Safe’, _ Ch’joh thought bitterly, watching J’pei relax. For how long? They’d all be kicked out of the barracks some day. Maybe Om’riel wouldn’t care about his reputation, and find some friend to act as stand-in as much as possible, but that wouldn’t work every time. He’d get hurt eventually, like N’bast had in the synch-up.

_ At least Om’riel’s only got the same target on his back as the rest of us, _ Ch’joh thought.  _ Not like J’pei. _ Who’d just noticed Ch’joh staring at him, whoops. Ch’joh made himself smile until J’pei turned away again. Fuck. He  _ had _ to figure out how much of his suspicion over that stupid over-crowded flight was warranted before Surugath rose again.

~

J’pei leaned against the fence of the feeding grounds, half watching Surugath, and half watching Om’riel chatting with L’mer. Both younger riders’ dragons were feeding. Just beyond them three older greenriders from M’ridin’ wing leaned their backs against the fence, watching the kids, and watching anyone approaching. All three of their dragons were up in their weyrs or the rim of the caldera, snoozing in the few rays of sun gleaming through the cloud cover, tired from their recently ended patrol.

It had been like this for the few days since talking to the Circle. Older greens would show up whenever C’gan finished lessons for the day, teaching the teens acrobatic dance moves, or quizzing them on the duty ballads, or like now, just sort of lingering conspicuously nearby. J’son and the others hadn’t shown their faces at all.

“J’pei! I gotta talk to you!”

J’pei drew his gaze from Surugath’s graceful glide around the Bowl, feeling her search out a nice spot to nap after her latest meal. He waved Ch’joh over with one hand, relieved and worried. Ch’joh had been acting weird for the last few days. Not just short-tempered, that made sense with Namith grounded. He kept ditching J’pei in the dining cavern to talk to other riders, or running off right after training to wave down the ones just coming back from patrol. That shouldn’t have been weird either, with how curious Ch’joh was, how he kept chasing every scrap of information he could get his hands on, but whenever he got back from these talks he’d...sort of stare at J’pei for a moment. Or start to say something, rephrase himself a few times, and then just shake his head.

If Ch’joh couldn’t bring himself to say something flat out, it must be bad.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Ugh, and I was trying to sound all calm, too,” Ch’joh said. Beyond him, Namith dozed on the sandy lakeshore; or rather, D’nis’s blue Aldamth dozed on the sandy lakeshore, and Namith sprawled on top of him, soaking up half the sunbeams that tried to reach him. Surugath executed an elegant turn on one wingtip and glided down to join them, falling asleep bare seconds after landing.

“Okay,” Ch’joh said, turning to lean against the fence next to J’pei, both of them gazing at their distant dragons rather than each other. Ch’joh crossed his arms over his chest. “You know how you said A’jellan hates you? And it’s because you kept Gullers’ from getting in trouble, when she defended herself back when he was being even more of a dick than he is now? And kinda held him accountable, for once?”

“Mm-hm,” J’pei said. Rally’s older mat-brother had always disliked Rally’s pat-sibs, and they him, but it only blossomed into full hatred the day Gullers broke his wrist a few Turns back.

“I thought maybe that was it at first,” Ch’joh said, drumming his fingers against his arm, grimacing. “Fucker just hates you, that’s enough reason.”

“Reason for what?” J’pei asked, confused. To needle him about Rally? About being a greenrider?

“Oh come  _ on,” _ Ch’joh snapped. He shot J’pei a glare. “Pull your head out of the fucking sand.” J’pei glared back, and Ch’joh sighed. “Sorry. Right. Moving on. Wasn’t just him, so I thought about it some more, trying to figure out what they might all have in common, and A’jellan, okay, what you did to  _ really  _ piss him off was act witness, right? I checked with Esme, you were the one to bring not just his wingleader but your dad into it too. Add more pressure.”

J’pei nodded; only a few sevendays after S’ten and Gullers’ break-up, R’gul had been just the right amount of guilty to nudge.

“So,” Ch’joh said, like he’d just proved something, but J’pei couldn’t see  _ what. _ “It’s a safe bet A’jellan hates your dad too, right?”

J’pei frowned. “It’s never seemed like it.”

“Well, sure,” Ch’joh said, waving a hand dismissively. “A brownrider isn’t gonna go bad-mouthing a bronze wherever anyone can hear him. He might get  _ demoted, _ and Faranth knows being a wingsecond is one of the only ways browns can  _ really _ hold themselves above blues.”

J’pei nodded again, this time with a sigh of his own.

_ “So,” _ Ch’joh said emphatically. “I checked with T’sum’s clutchmates and wingmates—”

J’pei blinked, confused. What did F’lar’s wingsecond T’sum have to do with A’jellan? J’pei didn’t even remember if F’lar had  _ had _ his wing yet, during the wrist-breaking incident. He certainly hadn’t been involved.

“—and they say T’sum’s always been a decent sort but a little clueless about anything not related to Thread, I mean, that latter’s typical for everyone in F’lar’s wing. And of course, we already know P’trikor was genuine. Probably all the blues too. But the rest of them, well, they call  _ our _ girls randy but there’s always more male dragons in a flight than females, which means they must rise even  _ more _ often and I’d bet they’re not hard to talk into it—”

“You lost me,” J’pei cut in, not seeing whatever leap of logic Ch’joh had just made.

_ “J’pei,” _ Ch’joh said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re my friend and you’re very smart, but you are being  _ really _ dumb.”

“You sound like Esme.”

“Esme’s a bright girl.” Ch’joh glared at J’pei again. “Fuck, I bet  _ she’s _ thought about this, it’s not like your flight didn’t reach all the gossips.”

“My  _ flight?” _ J’pei yelped, and then nervously glanced past Ch’joh’s shoulder. Thankfully they were far enough away that Om’riel, L’mer, and the older riders hadn’t heard him. “We’re talking about A’jellan hating me, not Dorth liking Surugath, why are you bringing up  _ that.” _

_ “Liking _ her?” Ch’joh echoed incredulously. “Chasing her! You think it matters if he  _ likes _ her? Some older brown dragon who just watched training but never joined in for tag or anything? He doesn’t even  _ know _ her!”

“Shut up!”

Ch’joh jerked back, expression shocked.

J’pei screwed his eyes shut, pressing his hands to his face for a moment. “I’m sorry. Don’t...don’t shut up, I’m sorry. I just...look, I know they don’t have to  _ like _ her for  _ herself _ to want to...to...I hate thinking about it, okay? You  _ know _ I hate thinking about it. Don’t make me talk about it. I’m sorry.”

“J’pei,” Ch’joh said slowly. “You  _ have _ to think about it. It’s happening again, in just—”

“Two months, I know.” J’pei lowered his hands, taking a few deep breaths. “So just...drop it. Please.”

“I  _ can’t _ drop it,” Ch’joh said. “Since you won’t  _ pick it up!” _ He grabbed J’pei’s shoulders, forcing him to face him. “You have to deal with this! You’re being so fucking stupid, you can’t just keep ignoring it, pretending like everything’s fine,  _ nothing _ is fine! Your dad’s not just some wingleader, and that  _ matters!" _

“What does that—”

_ “What is he?” _

“...the Weyrleader.” Something sour and hot sunk down from J’pei’s chest to his stomach, scraping out the confusion along the way, leaving only dread. He stared at Ch’joh, horrified.

“And has he been making himself popular since freed from the council’s control, or has all his heavy-handedness increased tenfold?”

“No, that’s…” J’pei knocked Ch’joh’s hands off, stumbling backwards. “That doesn’t have anything to do with— that  _ shouldn’t _ have anything to do with— no, no that’s— it’s—  _ no—” _

Ch’joh watched him with a mix of anger and sadness. J’pei crossed his arms over his chest, digging his fingers hard into his biceps.

“You’re saying they, all those brown and bronzeriders in her flight— they  _ what, _ they think they can…” J’pei latched onto the least awful theory, completely ignoring the issue of A’jellan’s hatred. “Take a moment to dribble policy in my ear as pillow-talk, because they’re too embarrassed to approach me in public? As something I’d pass on to him? He’s barely looked at me since Impression!”

“They don’t care about talk,” Ch’joh said. J’pei shook his head furiously, eyes screwing shut again. “R’gul’s embarrassed by you. Everyone knows it. He’s not exactly subtle.”

It shouldn’t hurt this badly, to hear it out loud. Not when he’d known it since the Hatching Feast. It  _ shouldn’t. _

“A greenrider son does not fit his idiotic ideas of being a macho bronze wingleader,” Ch’joh said, his tone the harshest thing J’pei had ever heard. “Let alone Weyrleader. The other bronzes are just as bad. Felena tripped into C’rob with hot soup after hearing him fucking say he had more admiration for M’ridin only siring daughters. And that’s the  _ nicest _ thing she says she’s heard—”

Ch’joh suddenly cut himself off. J’pei opened his eyes, saw Ch’joh pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Sorry. Doesn’t matter. She hasn’t passed that shit along for a  _ reason. _ Sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Ch’joh shook his head.

“Anyway. Assholes. Mad at your dad. Who has to sit in the council room with all of them all the damn time, the wingleaders and wingseconds.” His fingers slid up to press against his temples as he sneered. “And mating flight gossip is so fucking  _ common, _ anyone who won could chat casually with any of the others about you, what fucking you is like, they could make stuff up too, who’d argue with them? Chat before a meeting starts, filing out afterwards, making sure he heard them. And it wouldn’t be strange at all, no one else would bat an eye, the rest of them would  _ enjoy _ making him uncomfortable.”

J’pei stared at his friend, breathing hard through his nose, trying to summon his voice.  _ “Why,” _ he choked out, when Ch’joh paused for air. “Are you  _ telling _ me this.”

Wordlessly, Ch’joh gestured over to Om'riel. To the older riders protecting him.

“J’son...only tried coercion because...because D’nis intervened,” J’pei said, trying to take deep breaths, to calm down, to stop shaking. “Who’s going to tell bronzes they need my  _ permission _ to chase Surugath? Knowing about my dad doesn’t change anything!” He couldn’t calm down. “Why did you tell me!”

“They’re a bunch of selfish cowards,” Ch’joh snapped. “Who’d rather hurt you in some sick game of one-upmanship than openly oppose the Weyrleader. And they  _ lost _ her first flight, what do you think they’d do to change their chances? I’m not putting  _ anything _ past them.”

“What could they even coerce me with?” J’pei asked, grabbing onto disdain, desperate to push down the other awful feelings. “They don’t have the authority to assign duties until I’m in a wing. Not getting  _ picked _ for a wing? F’lar wasn’t in that flight, and he thinks I care about Thread. The rest can go freeze  _ between.” _

He gestured widely, feeling uncontrollably hysterical and viciously angry in a way he never had before, even when Surugath was proddy. “Ban me from Gathers? At the rate my father’s going  _ everyone _ will be banned soon! Deny me promotions? Tradition does that already!”

Ch’joh watched him warily.

“They don’t have a single thing on me!” J’pei laughed. “What have I got to lose by telling them what I think of them? They can’t even kick me out, not without any other active Weyrs to transfer me to! What could they—”

J’pei stopped laughing, struck by sudden horror. “Oh, fuck,” he gasped out. “My  _ sisters.” _

He bolted for the Lower Caverns, all the hot rage, disgust, and grief transmuted to cold fear. Where were they? He had to warn them. His feet pounded across the grass. He didn’t slow down when he reached the main entrance, slapping a hand onto the stone to swing himself towards the kitchens. A blurted inquiry to Sanra sent him to the glowbasket storage closet.

He found Esme making out with F’lar. J’pei broke them apart, dodging a startled elbow aimed at his throat, and thrust F’lar roughly out into the hallway. “I have to talk to Esme,  _ go away.” _

“What the hell, J’pei—”

“He really does have to talk to her,” Ch’joh said, sounding just a hair out of breath. J’pei hardly noticed him slinging an arm around F’lar’s shoulders to drag him off down the hall, too focused on his sister. She glared at him, fists on her hips and shirt on the floor.

“This better be  _ important,” _ she said, but not until the two sets of footsteps faded. “I was finally gonna talk him into trying something  _ new.” _

“Do you know where Gullers is?” J’pei blurted out. Esme scowled. J’pei sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to talk slower, as clearly as he could. “Some of the riders who don’t like Dad’s policies might try to hurt him through us. Through you, her, and me.” Esme’s eyebrows rose. “Ch’joh thinks that’s why Surugath’s flight was so weird—”

“Her flight was  _ weird?” _ Esme went from annoyed to worried in an instant. “I knew it was big, but it was three of you rising at once, that’s...big groups are normal, I thought…” She looked as queasy as J’pei felt. “I thought you were  _ okay.” _

“I am,” J’pei lied. “It’s just... _ all _ of the bronzes to rise went after her, and most of the browns too. They usually split up evenly.”

“All the riders that are wingleaders and wingseconds, and see Dad all the damn time,” Esme said, putting the pieces together faster than J’pei had. “Those fucking sons of—”

“Might go after you,” J’pei cut in. “You remember how everyone got, when Gullers broke A’jellan’s wrist, and I thought—”

“That someone would provoke us into that again, to make Dad look bad,” Esme finished. She sighed, and rubbed a hand briskly over her face. “Gullers is a lot better at twisting arms without breaking them, now. And the Headwoman’s got our backs. You remember how she made K'ban's life miserable until he transferred A’jellan out of his wing. You don’t need to worry about us.”

A tiny piece of his fear eased at her words. Headwoman Manora  _ did _ look out for her workers, and Gullers  _ could _ defend herself. They still needed to be wary, though. “They might skip provoking you,” J’pei said quietly. “And just try blaming a rape on a flight’s influence.”

Esme shot him a hard look. “Impressing really  _ has _ cracked those rosy lenses of yours, huh? Even last Turn you wouldn’t have thought a dragonrider capable of that.”

J’pei swallowed hard and stared at the floor.

“If it helps,” Esme said, picking her shirt up and tugging it on. “Hardly anyone remembers who Gullers’ dad is, let alone who mine  _ might _ be. You and Rally were always the ones they paid attention to. If you’ll never Stand, no one cares about you.”

“I care,” J’pei whispered.

“I know.” Esme sighed. She took a quick step forward and hugged him. J’pei buried his face in her hair, wrapped his arms around her back. “I’ll talk to Gullers,” she promised quietly. “You just take care of you, okay? Don’t worry about us so much.” She squeezed tight, and held him until the shaking eased.

“Come on,” Esme said eventually. “Let’s find our two hotheads before they kill each other.”

They walked slowly down the tunnel, J’pei wiping the tears from his eyes, steadying his breathing, Esme keeping a comforting hand on his back. The others came into sight when they rounded a corner, at the junction between the laundry and bathing chambers. F’lar stood with his arms crossed and brows raised, while Ch’joh blocked him from going back down the tunnel to the glowbasket storage closet.

“Hey, loverboy!” Esme called, stepping away from J’pei. Ch’joh made way for her to pass, but instead of walking by she propped her elbow up at an uncomfortable angle on his shoulder, getting a confused look from both men. “You’re like, obsessed with learning all your rivals’ weaknesses and becoming Weyrleader, how the hell did you not hear anyone conspiring to ruin J’pei’s flight? I thought you paid more attention than that.”

“I do pay attention,” F’lar said, giving her a self-satisfied smirk. “It was obvious Surugath would outfly them all.”

_ What? _ was all J’pei had time to think, before Ch’joh snarled out “You  _ knew?!” _ and slammed F’lar against the wall of the tunnel. Esme tripped backwards, yelping, into J’pei’s arms. “You knew and you kept your  _ mouth shut? _ You  _ useless fucking—” _

A draconic roar they shouldn’t be able to hear this deep inside the Lower Caverns split open the inside of J’pei’s head, joined before it ended by Namith’s upset shriek. He let go of Esme; they both stumbled forward, her to yell at F’lar and him to crouch beside Ch’joh, who knelt on the sandy floor of the tunnel with his hands pressed over his ears.

“Leave him alone, you ass!” Esme yelled, sticking a finger in F’lar’s face. “Namith’s proddy right now!”

Ch’joh groaned in pain. J’pei glared up at the wingleader, furious. “What did Mnementh  _ do _ to her?”

“He merely ordered her to tell her rider to release me,” F’lar said, tone cold, pretending he didn’t care how close Esme was standing to him.

“Merely,” J’pei echoed, matching him cold for cold. “The way a shout right beside someone’s ear is  _ merely?” _

F’lar looked away with a brief grimace, then down his nose at Esme. “You—”

“Save it,” Esme snapped. “Why didn’t you warn J’pei about Surugath’s false suitors?”

F’lar had the gall to look surprised at her question. He glanced at the two greenriders, and frowned at Esme. “Why do you care?”

“Are you okay?” J’pei whispered to Ch’joh, helping him to his feet. Ch’joh just mumbled “fuck” and rubbed at his skull.

“He’s still a weyrling,” F’lar said, in response to whatever Esme’s answer had been. “He’d have inhibited Surugath, if he knew.”

“Like you inhibited Mnementh?” Esme purred poisonously.

“...what.”

“Did it make you sick?” Esme asked, pressing a hand to his chest, fingers splayed. “Did you inhibit Mnementh, when he rose to chase Nemorth, and you thought of waking in the same mating bed as your father and grandfather?”

F’lar’s face paled. He knocked her hand aside and grabbed her shoulders, hissing,  _ “How dare you—” _

Esme stomped on his instep and yanked her shoulders back in one angry motion, breaking free and making him curse in pain. J’pei pushed himself between them. Angry words boiled inside his chest,  _ how dare YOU, _ and  _ Surugath and I are PARTNERS, _ and  _ grab my sister like that again and I’ll break your face— _

None of the words made it out of his chest, let alone his mouth, because Namith chose that moment to shriek in a  _ very _ different tone than she had a minute before.

“Fuck,” Ch’joh mumbled again. Then said, much louder, “I need to get  _ outside, _ I need to  _ see her.” _

“This way!” Esme said, grabbing his arm. “I know a shortcut to the Bowl, come on.”

J’pei followed them out, leaving F’lar nursing his bruised foot in the tunnel. Ch’joh came to a stop a few yards outside, staring blankly across the Bowl towards the feeding grounds, swaying on his feet.

“Reeth’s rising too,” he said in a distant voice. “You’d better go.”

“Are you—”

“D’nis knows where I am,” Ch’joh said, before J’pei could finish his question. “I know you. You’ll fret until you know Om'riel’s safe. Go.”

“I’ll make sure it really  _ is _ D’nis that finds him,” Esme said, still gripping Ch’joh’s arm.

J’pei hesitated, torn. Ch’joh made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. “I said  _ go.” _

J’pei ran.

~

Warm. Stable bed, not jolting down the road. Someone next to him, breath pattern for sleep. Smell of sweat, leather, sex, cheap laundry soap. Nothing hard underneath the pillow, so where’s his knife? Clothes...in reach, good, tunic on the floor, half under the bed, belt unbuckled, knife still in its sheath on the belt. Okay. Ch’joh presses two fingers to the hilt but doesn’t pick it up.

Namith’s sleepy mind humming at the back of his.  _ Good. _ Weird that there’s a human sleeping next to him but not  _ her. _ The only time he falls asleep with someone else is in a pile of their dragons, so what’s going on—

The events of the past few hours crashed back into his head.

Ch’joh sat up with a groan. D’nis blinked into wakefulness next to him, tugging the blankets higher before sitting up too.

“Ugh,” Ch’joh said, pressing the heels of his palms to his temples. Winds and Rains take him, what tactless part of his brain decided to say all  _ that _ to J’pei?

“There’s a waterskin somewhere in here,” D’nis said helpfully, stroking a hand down his back.

“Thanks,” Ch’joh said. He spotted the waterskin next to his tunic, scooped it up, and flopped back on the mattress with it clutched to his chest. He stared up at the ceiling. “I’m an idiot.”

“Helpful hint,” D’nis said dryly. “When you’re dehydrated, try  _ drinking _ water instead of cuddling it like a ragdoll.”

“Fuck you too,” Ch’joh said fondly. There wasn’t anyone else in the privacy chamber with them. Had the other participants remembered to find their own stand-ins, in case Aldamth had lost? Or for Reeth’s flight? Nevermind, not his problem. Om'riel was in the barracks, D’nis was here, and everyone else could go screw rocks. Ch’joh shuffled up against the pillows and took a sip of water.

“If you think you made the wrong call,” D’nis said cautiously. “Using the privacy chamber—”

“No, this was fun,” Ch’joh said reassuringly. Sex with D’nis while feeling  _ exactly _ how thrilled Namith was? Fantastic. Waking up knowing he’d badly upset his best friend? Not fantastic.

“Oh, good,” D’nis said, sounding relieved. He gestured for the waterskin. “Just so you know, though, in case anyone tries to tell you otherwise, spending one flight here doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it. As long as you’re living in the barracks, you can spend  _ any _ of her flights there.”

“Try convincing J’pei of that,” Ch’joh muttered. Shards, he’d just wanted to  _ warn _ him, why’d he have to be so damn accusatory about the whole thing? It wasn’t J’pei’s fault everyone else sucked.

“You should tell him how you feel,” D’nis said, even more dryly than before.

“Faranth’s  _ Tits, _ first Rishall, now you?” Ch’joh pressed his hands over his face. “I didn’t even  _ tell _ you.”

“I’ve watched friends falling in love for decades,” D’nis said. “You act like he hung the moons just to light your path at night.”

“Ugh.”

“Like anyone who makes him sad is trying to quench the sun itself.”

_ “Ugh.” _

D’nis patted his shoulder sympathetically. “At least your delightful friend Esme isn’t playing matchmaker yet.”

“Shards, don’t even  _ say _ that.”

~

J’pei dangled his legs over the hole in the drop-cave, arms tucked under his head, watching some escaped glow-worms slowly inch across the stone. They were so tiny and bright.

Surugath sunned along the top of the caldera, keeping one eye slightly open to watch their clutchmates far below, sharing the view with J’pei. Namith sprawled atop Aldamth again, this time half in his weyr and half on the ledge. Reeth rolled in the sand of the lakeshore, trilling at blue Zosth, who she’d practically tackled out of the air after a spiralling sprint around the mountain.

Zosth’s rider L’rad was just a Turn older than Om'riel, Impressing at the previous Hatching. He’d stumbled across the Bowl in a daze during that sprint, walked into J’pei’s outstretched arm a few yards from the barracks, turned  _ bright _ red, and run off to who-knew-where. Now he stood chatting amiably with Om'riel while they watched their dragons’ antics.

K’ban’s wing emerged from  _ between _ over the Weyr. The watch-dragon bugled a greeting, and then Reeth did too. Ledbuth and Neesuth broke formation to fly down to her. C’vrel or T’bor would have ordered them back in line, but K’ban was easier going. Om'riel and L’rad waved to them.

_ Ch’joh is asking L’mer where you are, _ Surugath said. J’pei sighed. Above him, the glow-worms continued inching along.  _ I would tell Namith you’re hiding but she’s VERY asleep. _

_ I’m not hiding, _ J’pei thought back.  _ I am calming down. _

_ Why? _ Surugath asked. He hadn’t been able to keep anything from her, when all the rising dragons’ bugles woke her, and now she kept sending him the sensation of sinking her teeth into meat.

_ Because…  _ J’pei sighed.  _ Because I don’t like feeling like this. _

Surugath immediately sent him a tiny wave of contrition, and then how nice the sun and wind felt on her hide, and how if she opened her  _ other _ eye she could see the mountains stretched out around Benden.

_ That is a nice view, _ J’pei agreed, returning her kindness with an image of the intrepid glow-worms.

Soon, soft footsteps sounded down the tunnel. J’pei pulled his legs up out of sight, sitting up so he could tuck them to his chest.

“J’pei?” Ch’joh called quietly. “Are you up there?”

_ I didn’t tell anyone, _ Surugath said.

A moment later Ch’joh’s head popped up over the vertical tunnel with the hand-holds. Relief broke over his face at the sight of J’pei, followed rapidly by a contrition deeper than Surugath’s. “I can go away,” Ch’joh said. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

J’pei didn’t trust himself to say anything.

Ch’joh sighed. “You’re pissed. I really will go away if you want. But if you don’t care if I’m here or not, I’m sticking around.”

J’pei stared at the wall. There weren’t any glow-worms on it, but their moving light above made the stone ripple.

“Okay,” Ch’joh said tentatively, and climbed the rest of the way up, scooting along the opposite direction from the entrance, so it would be easy for either of them to leave. “I stand by warning you. I shouldn’t have been as harsh as I was, and I’m sorry for  _ that.” _

“I’d rather be warned than not,” J’pei said. It was hard to keep his voice even.

“Good to know,” Ch’joh said. “I was just gonna say that if I need to warn you about anything else I’ll either be more succinct and direct, or like, ask Gullers for advice on breaking bad news—”

“Don’t ask Gullers that,” J’pei muttered, drawing a hand down his face. Gullers had come over while he was guarding the barracks, solemnly promised to drop her toolbox directly on the toes of anyone who harassed her or Esme, and gone back to work. “Ask Felena.”

“Noted. Anyway. If you  _ did _ tell me you’d rather  _ not _ be warned, I’m perfectly willing to break some kneecaps behind your back, so you don’t have to deal with them at all.”

J’pei sighed. “As long as you don’t do enough to endanger their lives and their dragons, I don’t care anymore.”

“...you know, I thought I’d be a lot happier to hear you say that than I am.”

They both lapsed into silence.

“Oh,” Ch’joh said eventually, looking up. “Cave lights.” He reached up, coaxing a glow-worm onto his finger. “I know they’re just ones that got loose from the baskets, but my Nana’s aunt always said they’re good luck.” He watched it crawling for a moment, then gently set it back up by an outcrop of mineral. “A little chaos to liven things up.”

“The winter-fire stories say the Whispering Ghost scattered them to confuse everyone,” J’pei said. He tilted his head up to keep watching. “But I like them.”


	17. Act Three, Clutch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Autumn

Weyrleader F’lon had dropped in on weyrling training once every sevenday, from the day his sons Impressed to the day he died. After that, the bronze council members stuck their heads in regularly for the next Turn. Rumor had it nowadays C’gan marched himself up to Weyrleader R’gul and reported on the current class’s progress whether he had time to listen or not. But curious lurkers aside, no one bothered  _ officially _ checking in on them personally.

Maybe if anyone had, someone besides the weyrlings themselves would have noticed the odd changes in four of the greens. Maybe C’gan would have, if he weren’t overworked trying to be Weyrlingmaster and Weyrsinger both.

As it was, it took Reeth and Namith suddenly eating as frequently as Orpith and Surugath, while Onth, Everth, and all the blues and browns slowed down, for their riders to wonder if it wasn’t just varied metabolisms. Then it took lining them all up in different orders to confirm that Orpith and Surugath were  _ unmistakably  _ darker than everyone else, while Reeth and Namith, a few sevendays after their mating flights, were clearly a shade between them and the other two. The green weyrlings checked five days in a row to make sure they weren’t imagining the shift and that the angle of the sun or clouds in the sky didn’t have anything to do with it.

“I’m glad it’s not just me,” N’ris said, relieved, as their dragons wiggled out of line to go play tag.

“Time to talk to the Aunties?” Ch’joh asked quietly.

“Or sneak into the archives,” J’pei said. He bit his lip. “No, you’re right. N’ris and I had better go see them. Can you ask everyone else to keep quiet about whatever this is until we get back?”

“Of course,” Ch’joh said, way too obliging in a way that made J’pei want to scream. Lately he’d be his normal sarcastic, prickly self around everyone else, and then go distant or overly-helpful with J’pei, like he wasn’t sure his apology had been enough. J’pei didn’t know how to say, “I’m angrier at myself for living in denial than I am at you for shattering that denial,” without Ch’joh just hearing, “I’m angry at you”. It didn’t help that none of the people who’d  _ actually _ done something wrong would ever apologize.

_ Don’t think about that right now, _ J’pei told himself, as though that wasn’t exactly the sort of thinking that made everything worse before.  _ Just go talk to the Aunties about your dragons. _

N’ris bounced ahead of him, full of fidgets, used to spending the time after morning lessons practicing either flight or dance with his twin and their dragons. In the Lower Caverns, N’ris acted as scout, looking around for anyone noticing them, beckoning J’pei around corners in a roundabout route to the senior weyrfolk’s cavern.

“Now there’s a worried face,” Zalinna said, peering up at J’pei’s regular expression. X’toq and Q'cheten chuckled at his small sigh. No one else did, fortunately; the Aunties sat together in the farthest corner from the entrance, and all the other seniors close enough to hear were napping. The only other awake people in the room where two retired blueriders engrossed in a game of counters by the kitchen chimneys.

“We have...concerns,” J’pei said, and listed out all the oddities the green weyrlings observed. “At first I worried if it had something to do with them rising so early,” he concluded, biting his lip again. “Since everyone says greens rise at a Turn…”

“Ha!” Q'cheten rocked forward and thumped his cane down on the stone floor between his feet. “And they claim you’re inhibiting your dragon if it takes the full two Turns, hurting the poor thing, and Faranth help you if it’s longer!”

“Some of the other riders are teasing K’tis,” N’ris said. “Since we’re twins and all, and Everth hasn’t so much as gleamed yet. Nobody’s teased P’gyo, but they’re giving him  _ looks.” _

“P’gyo Impressed at  _ ten,” _ J’pei snapped, hands curling into tight fists. “If anyone calls him  _ inhibited _ I’ll...I’ll…” J’pei trailed off, knowing there wasn’t anything he could  _ do _ to make them stop.

“Feeling a wee bit bitey, there, J’pei?” Zalinna asked, snuggling deeper into her quilts, quick eyes gleaming at the two young greenriders. She winked at N’ris. “You take care of this one, lad, he’ll protect that twin of yours, and the littler one too.”

“Greens usually rise for the first time between their tenth and twenty-second month,” X’toq said, waving his frail, mottled hand slowly. “Closer to the twenty-second if their rider is young, but there were a few in our day that didn’t rise for four Turns!” X’toq chuckled fondly. “Oh, we teased the poor dears quite badly, but it all worked out in the end. The dragons rise when they’re ready, and that’s that.”

“Wasn’t your Minamith one of the late bloomers?” Q'cheten asked, gently tapping the head of his cane with one thumb.

“Yep!” X’toq grinned hugely, eyes lost in the upturned wrinkles. “And  _ I _ certainly wasn’t inhibited.” He cackled. “Impressed at sixteen and made my way through the whole weyrling barracks in a sevenday.”

N’ris blushed, and J’pei sighed, resisting the urge to cover his face and shake his head.

“Oh, you did not, you old braggart,” Zalinna scolded, wriggling one hand from her quilts to smack X’toq’s arm. “It wasn’t even  _ half _ the barracks. Not even a  _ quarter.” _

“You’re only thinking of our clutch.” X’toq straightened up as much as he could in the rocking chair, setting it gently tilting back and forth. “Half of Lidith’s last batch were still there.”

“Will you two get back on topic?” Q'cheten grumbled.

“You asked,” X’toq said, cackling again.

“Your dragons didn’t rise too early, dears,” Zalinna said, snaking her hand back into the warmth of the quilts. “Just because the next two rose at nearly one Turn doesn’t make yours early. And the other two are just fine rising later.” She sighed. “Even if one of them’s the Little Sibling incarnate and  _ never _ rises, that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the rider. You feed them and love them and tell them they’re pretty, and all’s well with the world for our darlings.”

“I know  _ that,” _ N’ris blurted out. “But what’s going  _ on _ with them?”

“Ah…” Zalinna shared a look with the other two ancient greenriders. “Well. It sounds like they’re pregnant.”

_ “I knew it!”  _ N’ris hissed out in an excited whisper. He glanced over his shoulder, but the blueriders hadn’t even glanced over. “I  _ knew _ I remembered Nemorth getting all dark gold after  _ her _ flight!”

“You knew too, didn’t you?” X’toq asked, smirking at J’pei. “You’d have gone to that whippersnapper calling himself Weyrlingmaster, or maybe one of the healers, asking what was wrong with your darlings if you hadn’t already thought of pregnancy.”

J’pei kept his face as blank as he could. It wasn’t like he’d thought of it until after Reeth and Namith rose too.

“Oh, don’t stone-face us, you’re not in trouble,” Q'cheten said, poking his knee. “We’re  _ proud _ of you figuring it out.” That was a relief. “X’toq, stop being so enigmatic at the young man.”

“Weyrleader J’ash let greens lay,” J’pei said, while X’toq grumbled jokingly. “When he thought the Interval was ending. There’s descriptions in his logs.” If they were proud of him figuring it out, instead of running to C’gan, they probably wouldn’t object to his old forays into the archives. Honestly, learning he’d been right about the pregnancy was an even bigger relief than not being in trouble. The dragons weren’t sick, and their riders hadn’t done anything wrong. “What do we do now?”

“Feed ‘em as much as they want, don’t ask ‘em to go  _ between _ if they say they feel funny,” Q'cheten said, ticking off the points on his fingers. “And…”

“They’ll feel funny going  _ between?”  _ N’ris asked, frowning in puzzlement.

“Not so much  _ funny _ as  _ heavy,” _ Q'cheten clarified. “The queens before Nemorth flew and went  _ between _ all the time, but in the last month or so before laying they’d get too egg-heavy, and refuse to.”

“I never knew that,” N’ris said. He leaned against J’pei side, humming speculatively. J’pei draped an arm over his shoulders. He had distant memories of B’sur chatting with other retired riders about Feyrith and Lidith flying outside the Weyr, taking to the skies just for fun, not solely to mate like Nemorth. He couldn’t remember any talk of the queens travelling  _ between, _ let alone often enough to notice when they stopped. “That’s neat!”

“I imagine it was in those records of yours too?” X’toq asked J’pei. He nodded. Pregnant greens refusing to go  _ between _ had made it to the records, J’ash’s frustration over the temporary stop to training bleeding through in the wording of his logs. None of that sounded too bad right now, though. C’gan was much more flexible about changes to the  _ between _ lessons than he was about anything else, determined to keep them all safe.

C’gan was going to have his hands full training a new batch of weyrlings so soon. J’pei smiled at that thought; there were going to be more weyrlings, because Surugath was going to have hatchlings. Surugath was going to be a  _ mom, _ just like Nemorth, Feyrith, Lidith, and all the golds before them.

_ “And,” _ Q'cheten said, going back to his list. “Keep this secret from everyone who’s not green. Maybe even from everyone who’s not your clutchmates. Try to get your dragons to only talk to each other, or to not think about it much, if you can.”

Every single ounce of relief vanished. “...you don’t want the Weyrleader finding out,” J’pei said. There couldn’t possibly be anyone else who could find out and be a  _ problem. _

“Won’t he notice once they lay the clutch?” N’ris asked, looking up at him. J’pei swallowed hard, uncertain of what to say, fear creeping through him.

“Oh yes, but it’ll be too late then,” Zalinna explained. “He won’t be able to deny it...or try to stop it.”

“Stop it?” N’ris squeaked. He looked around nervously again, pressing closer. J’pei tightened his arm’s hold, needing the comfort himself. 

“J’pei must have a few ideas.” Zalinna’s voice held cynical amusement, but her eyes were sad, sympathetic.

“...he won’t hurt dragons,” J’pei said. “Not on purpose.” No dragonrider would. But the Aunties didn’t want R’gul finding out, and as soon as they’d said it neither did J’pei. He knew his father, knew how foolish he’d thought long-dead Weyrleader J’ash, knew how he lived and breathed uncompromising tradition. “But greens are supposed to be fed firestone to stop them clutching. As soon as he realizes we  _ weren’t, _ he’ll insist. It’s  _ proper.” _ J’pei’s stomach twisted in dismay. “And who knows what that’ll do to the eggs? If they even  _ are _ eggs yet.” They couldn’t let that happen.

“And he’ll yell at us,” N’ris said quietly. “Dumb featherheads, can’t even remember to chew firestone.”

“He’ll criticise himself even more,” J’pei said, but he felt even sicker at the thought of the Weyrleader reprimanding all of the green weyrlings, while they had to just stand there and accept it. Bad enough having C’gan insult them for simple mistakes. “And criticise C’gan. And even if we  _ can _ convince him that giving everyone but Everth and Onth firestone is a bad idea, he’ll want to cover it up somehow. But that’s not  _ possible. _ And he  _ hates _ being told something’s impossible.”

“Maybe he’ll starve us like they starved the queen,” N’ris whispered in a horrified voice. “Tell himself it’ll make the clutch smaller, tell himself that’s  _ good _ because smaller clutches mean demanding less tithes from the holders.”

J’pei shuddered. That sounded far too likely. He steeled his spine, and patted N’ris’s shoulder. “We won’t let that happen. Come on. Let’s go tell the others.”

~

Ch’joh balanced his tiny bag of teeth on one hand, holding it over his head as he lay on his bunk. Two months. Two months and Namith would lay eggs. Did that make her a mother? Or was she not one until “five heated weeks” after that, when her clutch hatched? He rolled the bag down his arm, gently knocking it with his elbow to land on his stomach.

Just one month until Surugath and Orpith clutched. They’d both opted out of  _ between _ lessons today. Ch’joh honestly expected C’gan to figure it out, since it wasn’t like they’d feel up to it again before the jig was up.

“Hey.”

Ch’joh jerked upright, fumbling to catch the bag before it could fall to the floor. J’pei watched him, looking surprised. The cool afternoon sun streaked around him from the big open shutters to illuminate everything. They’d have to start keeping them closed and rely on glowbaskets soon.

“Sorry. Didn’t think I’d startle you.”

“Just contemplating motherhood,” Ch’joh said. J’pei smiled, that tiny quirk of his lips to one side. Shells.

“Do you…” J’pei leaned against the nearest bunk frame. “The snow’s going to make it into the Bowl any day now. Do you want to practice dancing, before it does?”

“Uh.” Ch’joh pushed himself all the way up, tucking the bag of teeth into his other boots. “The acrobatic dances, right?”

J’pei nodded. “Saw N’bast do a backflip off L’colm’s hands yesterday, when they were trying to cheer Anjali up. Think we can learn that before the Spring Festival?”

“Oh, we can learn  _ anything,” _ Ch’joh said. He hesitated. “Uh. If you really want to. It’d probably have to be me flipping off of your hands, and I’m not that much shorter than you, it’d be easier with—”

“I miss you.”

Ch’joh snapped his teeth shut. “...ah?”

“We stopped hanging out and I miss you,” J’pei repeated. To the floor. Not looking at Ch’joh.

“Aw, fuck, I miss you too,” Ch’joh said, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling like a complete idiot. “Sorry.”

“So…” J’pei took a step back, looking up again, one hand outstretched. “Dance practice? If we stick to the marshy bits of lakeshore it’ll hurt less when we fall on our butts.”

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said, taking his hand with a grin, his heart doing funny things inside his chest. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

~

Spending all the time he wanted with J’pei again meant that Ch’joh spent hardly any time teaching Earl to pass as a member of Benden Hold instead of Benden Weyr. He didn’t miss it; he’d run out of the important differences a few months ago, had been going into excessive detail on farming matters, repeating things. He didn’t think Earl missed the lessons either, so it was a surprise when he dropped down across the table from J’pei and Ch’joh at breakfast one morning.

Earl planted his elbows on either side of his cereal bowl, and gestured towards them. “Can one of you  _ please _ convince Headwoman Manora to take fostering applications again? It’ll make  _ someone _ think to go scoop up some of your western refugees, and I want to hitch a ride when they do.”

Ah. Not lessons, then. “Talk to her yourself,” Ch’joh said, adding more sweetener to his klah. It was too early to deal with this. None of their other friends were even at the table, either working in the kitchens or still asleep. Ch’joh honestly wanted to be back asleep too, but he and J’pei had both been woken before dawn by nightmares. Which. Well. Fucking sucked.

“She’s respecting the Weyrleader’s decision to keep extra mouths to a minimum,” J’pei said. Ch’joh took advantage of his distraction to sneak more food onto his plate. He hadn’t even realized J’pei was having trouble sleeping until  _ after _ the Old Aunties confirmed the pregnancy, and all of a sudden J’pei was sleeping past dawn again, most days, the dark circles under his eyes healing. Ch’joh could  _ kick _ himself for not paying more attention before.

“You both know  _ that _ can’t last,” Earl said. “Not once your frankly fucking hilarious secret comes out and this place turns into candidate central.” They both froze. Well, fuck. Things had been going so  _ well. _ C’gan was busy enough with Weyrsinger duties he’d seemed relieved to go back to flying-only maneuvers, tabling the more supervision-heavy  _ between _ practice without fuss. The non-green weyrling pairs had mostly been too intent on training to notice the greens keeping a secret. Mostly. Q’resh and Mianath probably noticed  _ something _ up with the twins, but weren’t the type to blab to adults. How had Earl— 

“Don’t even start,” Earl said. He tapped one temple. “I knew before you did.”

Ch’joh rolled his eyes. Okay, so maybe he should have thought of that, but Earl didn’t have to be a brat about it. Next to him, J’pei just raised his eyebrows.

“Look, I said don’t start,” Earl said. “I want out of here before the punchline lands.”

“Not a joke,” J’pei said quietly.

_ “Really _ good job convincing us to do you favors,” Ch’joh added sarcastically.

“Like either of you wants me to Stand,” Earl said, rolling his eyes this time. “I don’t want it either, so let’s  _ all  _ do each other favors and get me off to the bad part of the continent to make myself useful for once.” He dropped his head down to the table, hands in his hair. “Do you know how  _ bored _ I am here?”

“Plenty less dangerous places around Pern to find yourself in,” Ch’joh pointed out. No more dancing around it. “Why over there?”

Earl tilted his head up just enough to glare at him. “I’m still  _ weyrfolk, _ without a dragon. It’s...it’s my job to help. My stupid gift’s a lot more useful on the ground than in the air.” He dropped his head again. “Besides, it’s not like anyone knows if he’ll ever stop taking Holds. Rather jump in feet first then settle down somewhere quiet and get slaughtered in the night like poor fucking Ruatha.” He shuddered. “Never wanna feel  _ that _ again.”

Ch’joh’s breath went jagged in his chest, his hands dropped his utensils. He made himself focus on the woodgrain under his fingertips.

“Tell Manora you want to be a harper,” J’pei said. He scooted closer to Ch’joh on the bench, pressing their shoulders together.

“I don’t want to be a harper,” Earl muttered. Ch’joh’s fingers slid over a whorl in the wood, then nicks made by careless handling of carving knives over the Turns, then another whorl.

“Weyrleader F’lon used to laugh all the time about what a busybody his harper friend was,” J’pei said. Ch’joh moved his hand back and forth, counting the nicks. “If anyone can point you somewhere helpful, it’s them.”

And Earl would be in a real craft hall full of real adults that would know where to  _ not _ send a more sheltered than he realized teenager. “If you get ‘em to teach you drum codes before you leave, you can eavesdrop on way more shit,” Ch’joh pointed out. He almost felt normal again. Just a quick one, this time. Nice.

“That’s true…” Earl abruptly stood up, turning to go. He paused. Looked back at them. Pointed at J’pei with a grin. “Esme still won’t make bets on her siblings, but I’m gonna tell her to collect my pot on you, so don’t be surprised.”

“What’s there left to bet on?” Ch’joh asked.

“Wings,” J’pei muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Everybody else thinks it’s about who’ll want you as a wingrider,” Earl said, grinning even wider.  _ “I _ know it’s really about who  _ you _ respect.”

“None of them.”

“Okay, who you’ll  _ tolerate. _ And I know F’lar was the only one to congratulate you on Impressing Surugath, so it’s not like you’ll bother with the others.” J’pei glared at him. Earl laughed, finally leaving. He waved over his shoulder at them. “Good luck!”

~

“I’m gonna fall on my face,” Ch’joh muttered, slowly straightening up. It was too cold to practice completely barefoot, even if today was unseasonably warm, so his thick wool socks slipped slightly on J’pei’s jacket. His boots lay on the grass nearby, past the sandline. “Gonna take one step and land in the marsh.”

“I won’t drop you,” J’pei said, squeezing his hands tighter around Ch’joh’s ankles.

“I know  _ that,” _ Ch’joh said. He kept his arms outstretched, familiar with this part of the dance by now after all their recent practices. Could probably do archery from up here, as speedy and accurate as if it were his own feet planted on solid ground instead of J’pei’s. “Okay. You can let go.”

J’pei carefully opened his hands, slowly moving them in front of his chest, held palm up. Ch’joh blew out air speculatively. “I know you’re strong as anything, but you’re  _ sure _ this won’t snap your wrists like twigs?”

“You remember how long Surugath insisted I carry her around like a feline for,” J’pei reminded him dryly. “If L’colm can hold up N’bast, I can hold up you.”

“N’bast’s a sharding noodle,” Ch’joh said, and moved one foot off J’pei’s shoulder before he could lose his nerve. J’pei curled his fingers up over Ch’joh’s toes, and didn’t say anything about how much the stupid wool must itch on his palm. “Maybe I can just stay here. This is just a new place to balance.”

“Please do not backflip off my shoulder and kick me in the head,” J’pei said, even more dryly.

“Pff,” Ch’joh said dismissively. As if he would; they weren’t anywhere near ready to try the flip itself yet. Theoretically they  _ could _ learn to do it that way, but if they did hands instead of shoulders then J’pei could give Ch’joh’s jump a boost. Cautiously, Ch’joh shifted more weight to the forward foot, and moved the other onto J’pei palm.

“Good?” J’pei asked, instead of a pointed “I told you it would work” like Ch’joh would have gone for if their positions were reversed.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Ch’joh said. This was a  _ lot _ wobblier; he could feel J’pei’s arms continually shifting to stay steady. But also less slippery; socks-on-hands had better friction than socks-on-jacket, apparently. They’d be  _ unstoppable _ in the spring, with warmer weather. “Honestly, the balance isn’t as bad as I was expecting. Gonna try out some knee-bends, let me know if you get tired—”

Some dragon bit another too hard in a game of tag; the resulting indignant shriek startled Ch’joh off balance. He yelped, arms flailing, feet kicking up before he could stop them.  _ Oh, it’s going to be hell to get the marsh weeds out of everything, _ flashed through his head in the seconds before he—

_ —didn’t _ hit the muck?

Ch’joh blinked up at J’pei, who’d caught him before he even got  _ close _ to the ground, one arm under his knees and the other under his back. Then J’pei had the utter gall to  _ smile _ instead of saying anything, and swung Ch’joh back onto his feet right on the towel they’d set out by his boots.

“...okay, obviously, we’re trying again,” Ch’joh said, shoving J’pei shoulder. “I am prepared for anything now. Stop laughing and give me a boost.”

~

“You up?”

J’pei lifted his blankets up as little as necessary to peer out from under them at Ch’joh, barely visible in the light of a glowbasket. “Mm?”

“Namith and me got permission yesterday to do distance flight practice by ourselves,” Ch’joh whispered. “I got, uh, a thing to do in the valley and I wanna invite you and if we go now we’ll still have the rest of the rest day to do whatever. I already asked C’gan if you could do flight practice too and he said sure.”

“Lemme get dressed,” J’pei mumbled, burrowing back under the blankets. He heard Ch’joh move away, and stuck one arm out of his warm nest to rummage in the clothes basket under his bunk.

Ch’joh handed over klah and meatrolls once J’pei met him outside, having clearly trudged across the Bowl to the kitchens before waking J’pei, bringing back enough breakfast for both of them. Surugath grumbled for a minute about putting her riding gear on, then caught Namith’s excitement and flapped her wings anticipatorily as J’pei climbed up.

They flew in near silence over the walls of the caldera and down the side of the mountain. It felt strange to be out here without C’gan and the rest of the weyrlings. The morning mist hung heavy on the jagged peaks, staying thick even as they descended, lending the world a secretive air.

Ch’joh signalled a landing in a high meadow that barely earned the name, a shallow scrape of blue-ish green between crumbling brown rocks, dotted with early-winter flowers.

“Your babies,” Ch’joh told Namith after dismounting, patting her snout fondly. “You get to dig.”

Namith chirped, sitting on her haunches, tearing into the dirt with her claws. Surugath sat next to her and watched, just as curious as J’pei, occasionally batting clumps of dirt farther away.

“We’re cutting it kind of close,” Ch’joh told J’pei, the two of them standing side by side, watching their dragons. He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. The action knocked his flight cap askew, prompting him to peel it off and tuck it into his belt. “I honestly didn’t  _ mean _ to wait until Earl was gone, but— honey, deeper’s better than wider —but I can’t say I’m sorry he can’t  _ possibly _ hear about it now. No reward for nosing through my stuff.”

Ch’joh loosened his scarf and unfastened the top of his jacket, sticking his hand down it for a split second and triumphantly pulling out the small leather bag Earl had found in his belongings at Turn’s End, almost two Turns ago now.

“Never thought I’d actually bury these,” Ch’joh said, smiling at the bag fondly, before passing it to J’pei. “You can look, if you want.”

Glad to indulge guiltlessly in curiosity for once, J’pei gently pulled the cording until the bag’s contents were clear to see. Over a dozen tiny teeth gleamed in the grey morning light. J’pei almost laughed; hadn’t he seen countless weyrbrats lose theirs, over his Turns in the Lower Caverns? He smiled at Ch’joh, an incredible fondness fizzing warmly in his chest. “You kept your milkteeth?”

“As many as possible,” Ch’joh said. He poked a finger into the bag, stirring them. “You clean them and keep them safe, the first responsibility that’s yours alone. And some day, when you grow up and get married and want children…” He gestured to the now-finished hole Namith sat expectantly by. “...you plant them!”

J’pei handed the bag back. “All at once?”

“One or two at a time,” Ch’joh said. He walked over to the hole, smiling fit to burst, and upturned the bag, shaking it to make sure every single tooth fell out. Namith immediately began shoving the dirt back into place, spattering Ch’joh before he could step back.

“She’s only going to ever have the one clutch,” Ch’joh explained, before J’pei could even make a questioning noise. He tucked the empty bag back into his jacket, then brushed the dirt off himself. “Might as well get all we can out of it, right?”

_ Are we doing that? _ Surugath asked.

“I don’t have mine anymore,” J’pei told her apologetically. She wriggled her shoulders in a draconic shrug, and went back to batting the dirt clumps.

“That confused me so much,” Ch’joh said, smile turning wry. “When I left Tillek. I didn’t think anything of the Traders, everyone knows they don’t carry extra weight, but everyone else? It just seemed so strange.” He ran a hand over his hair. “At least Crom  _ keeps _ theirs, even if milkteeth worn as jewelry gave me the creeps the first couple times I saw it.”

“Perall told me about that,” J’pei said. “The Lemos jewelers don’t do it, but they trade enough with Crom...he said it’s the one gemstone no one would think to sell.”

“Benifer told me the same thing,” Ch’joh said. He sat down cross-legged on the cold grass, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. Surugath abandoned the dirt clumps to sniff along the edges of the tiny meadow. Namith gave the dirt one last nudge with her snout, and joined her friend. “We’re probably never gonna get away with ‘extra flight practice’ again, once the first clutch’s laid.”

J’pei sat down too. “We shouldn’t  _ need _ to ‘get away’ with it.” J’pei understood caution, he really did, but his father’s safety measures felt like he didn’t trust anyone but himself to make sensible choices. It grated. “The Aunties never had to beg anyone’s permission to go wherever they liked.”

“Too bad golds are so territorial,” Ch’joh said. He shot J’pei a grin. “Can you imagine if all our girls flew  _ with _ Nemorth? We could keep all the jerks away and pick our own Weyrleader.”

“Someone the Weyrwoman likes,” J’pei said. He didn’t know if Jora liked anyone, though. He couldn’t imagine liking anyone who treated him the way the bronzeriders treated her.

“Or at least doesn’t hate.” Ch’joh flopped back on the dewey grass, lacing his fingers together over the breast of his jacket. “She’s  _ never _ forgiving those bastards who starved her.”

“She could be Weyrleader,” J’pei suggested. “Catch herself.”

Ch’joh laughed, loud and delighted. J’pei loved that sound.

“Can you  _ imagine _ the fit the bronzes would throw?” Ch’joh said, grinning up at the sky. “They’d try to bring that stupid council back, and we’d be all, nah, Nemorth’s the first dragon to catch herself, she’s making history, Jora’s the Weyrleader now, follow your own stupid rules or get lost.”

“They’d say oh, things have to change, we can’t have this,” J’pei said. “And we’d tell them they should have changed centuries ago, too late now.”

“And Jora makes us her wingseconds, ‘cause of course she has a wing now.”

“She’s scared of heights,” J’pei pointed out reluctantly.

“Well Nemorth just has to fly in formation over the Weyr,” Ch’joh said. “She can do that without a rider. For patrols and all that, her wing can do what all the others do when the wingleader’s got a cold, or a hangover, and put the wingseconds in charge.”

“Mm,” J’pei hummed in agreement. He stretched his arms over his head before lying down on the grass too. “What do you think would hatch, from a self-caught clutch?”

“Oh, golds for sure,” Ch’joh said, briefly untwining his fingers to wave a hand in the air. “But tiny! Smaller than our girls, and they grow up to lay even tinier dragons, hardly the size of a runnerbeast.” During their dance practices, Ch’joh had grilled J’pei endlessly about Weyrleader J’ash’s logs. They both knew now that not even the smallest of the jewels to hatch from green eggs were that small.

“Do you think we should have told the Circle?” J’pei asked. Secrecy seemed like a good idea at first, but after almost a month of constantly swallowing down excited boasting, he wasn’t so sure. They  _ were _ going to be in trouble. The Circle could have brainstormed ways to mitigate that trouble. It didn’t feel quite real, though; mostly J’pei just wanted to speed up time and meet Surugath’s hatchlings already.

“We’re giving them plausible deniability,” Ch’joh said confidently. “And ourselves; the creeps in charge of this place will  _ totally _ believe we didn’t notice this coming.”

“There’s going to be so much yelling.”

“Well, no one’s yelling  _ yet, _ so relax.”

“I’m too excited to relax,” J’pei said.

Ch’joh rolled over onto his side to look at J’pei. “Yeah? You’ve been happier this month than you have all Turn, but I figured...you know, all your usual fretting was just bubbling along still.”

“It is,” J’pei said. He didn’t like admitting the fretting existed, to most people, but he trusted Ch’joh with it. “It’s just, so is...I promised Esme I’d change things here.” All around them the mist grew thinner, revealing more rocks and patches of life. “I never imagined doing it like this, but…” J’pei rolled onto his side, turning from the increasingly clear sky to look at Ch’joh. “Neither did anyone else. It’s been centuries since Benden’s had green clutches.”

Benden Weyr hadn’t even been this small in Weyrleader J’ash’s day. It had shrunk a little since the Eighth Pass, fallen below the traditional five hundred active dragons considered necessary, but they’d still had three times Benden’s current numbers, with more than one gold. Yet J’ash had split his riders across multiple Weyrs and let the greens clutch when he thought Thread was imminent. So he’d been wrong about the timing. The Fourth Interval had been twice the length of a normal one, why couldn’t the Eighth?

“Knock ‘em all for a loop,” Ch’joh said. “Make ‘em rethink all those traditions.”

“Maybe enough of a loop we can give all the girls a chance,” J’pei said, finally giving voice to the idea. “My father’s going to complain about bringing in more candidates, but if Zalinna’s willing to speak up again, and if we get the Headwoman to back us…”

Ch’joh frowned. “Hate to get their hopes up and see R’gul ban them all from spite.”

J’pei dropped onto his back again. That sounded far more likely. He didn’t even know what Manora would think of it, anyway. “You don’t think there’s a chance of talking our way into  _ not _ chewing firestone either, then?”

Now Ch’joh turned to look at him. “...is this about that thing from J’ash’s logs, where clutching greens only rose twice a Turn, just like golds do in a Pass?”

“No,” J’pei said instinctively, then sighed. He  _ had _ to stop doing that. “A little. It’s not a downside. It’s just not the main reason.”

“It’d be okay if it was,” Ch’joh said quietly. “It’s okay if you don’t—”

“We’ve got less than a decade,” J’pei said. He sat up, loosely drawing up his knees to drape his arms around them. The high broken peak of Benden Weyr loomed over everything. “Until Threadfall.”

“...you really think it’s coming,” Ch’joh said slowly, sitting up too.

“If it is and we’re not ready, everyone dies.”

J’pei stared at the mountains. Not even lonely Fort tried to fight Thread by themselves, digging out new Weyrs as fast as they could between Falls. Now that ancient dragonhome stood empty, lifeless, just like Telgar, High Reaches, Igen, Ista. All but Benden.

Even J’pei and his clutchmates entering wings wouldn’t put Benden’s active dragons above one hundred and fifty, nor would four clutches by greens get them to two hundred, let alone the five hundred needed by  _ one _ Weyr in a Pass. They needed more. They needed to give every new green a chance to clutch. Needed to at least occupy, if not fill, the other Weyrs.

“Even if it’s not coming,” J’pei said, swallowing his uneasy thoughts, pulling his mind back to here and now. “What could it  _ hurt _ to fill them all again?”

“For one,” Ch’joh said. “It would split the tithes, and your damn fool father won’t dare request more.”

“Forget tithes,” J’pei said. He slashed a hand through the air. “Tithes only matter in a Pass, when we’re too busy for those gathering expeditions, and we’re  _ doing _ something for the rest of Pern for once.”

“And tithes in an Interval are just to get us to the next Pass,” Ch’joh said, still talking slowly, thinking through everything as he said it, chasing the same threads of ‘what if’ as J’pei. “Dragons are…” He stared at Namith and Surugath, so much closer to them than the mountain peaks. “Amazing. Beyond amazing. And so are all the humans scraping out a living on this hunk of dirt and water.  _ Amazing _ and  _ tradition _ aren’t good enough reason for someone like...like poor scared Serrach to send us the shearings of her woolies, when that would better serve her traded for fruits and tubers.”

_ “Trade,” _ J’pei echoed, jumping on that opening. “We could be a Craft Hall.”

“What, learn to weave or smith or harp?” Ch’joh asked, turning an amused and confused look on him.

“No, I mean, if people want to, but as  _ dragonriders _ , we could make a new Hall.” J’pei held up his hands and drew them apart, words not enough to get the huge idea out of his head and into the air. “Why tithe when we can trade? Weyrbrats already earn marks through midden duty,  _ because _ the Lower Caverns barter with farmholds who want our manure. Why not trade real services, instead of just dung? We can go  _ anywhere!” _ J’pei slashed out both hands this time. “Anywhere! How long does it take to send a letter from the main Beastcraft Hall to the Masterharper right now? How many drum messages are decoded by spies, that a dragonrider could have carried in confidence instead?”

“And people,” Ch’joh said speculatively. “Did you know, the only reason Anjali’s father refused to grant her permission to apprentice as a healer is because it’s too dangerous to travel from Telgar to Fort? He’s right, too; over land takes you through Nabol, and any ship bigger than a fishing vessel passing through Big Bay risks pirates.”

“She told me their hold’s healer suggested studying at Keroon,” J’pei said.

“Yeah, after her father nixed the official Healer Hall. He didn’t like Keroon either because it’s not a proper healer hall for humans, it’s just one or two teachers sort of hanging out with the Beastcraft healers. Anjali still almost went, though.”

“We could take her to Fort,” J’pei said, sidetracked from his ideas by the thought of Anjali just as stuck as they were.

“Already offered,” Ch’joh said, waving his hand. “She said no for now, thanks, but maybe in a couple Turns. When she’s wrung all the teaching she can out of Olivia.”

“That’s a lot of teaching,” J’pei said. Ch’joh laughed. “The healers and harpers take tithes.”

“Because healing and teaching are Charter-rights,” Ch’joh said. He flopped bonelessly down on the ground again, arms over his head this time, twirling one foot to a soundless tune. “Harpers take commissions, though.”

“We could mix it up, like them,” J’pei said. “Help out for free in emergencies, like the Ballad of Rockfall.” He hummed that melody from one of the small green gatherings. “Negotiate with each Lord Holder whether or not they want to pay us regularly to run messages for their smallfolk, or let everyone deal with us directly.”

“Screw the Lords,” Ch’joh said, grinning up at him. “Let’s just jump straight to the smallfolk. It’s not like they’d need clear roads and armed guards to tithe to us, if we went ourselves to pick it up.”

“Would the Traders and sailors be mad if we took over messenger and courier services?” J’pei asked. He planted one hand on the cold grass, careful not to crush a cluster of winter flowers, turning to look down at Ch’joh properly.

“Not for decades,” Ch’joh said. “Which is how long it would take us to establish ourselves. No one  _ trusts _ dragonriders anymore.” J’pei grimaced, but couldn’t deny it. Ch’joh’s amused expression turned soft, curious. “How long have you been thinking of this?”

J’pei thought of Rishall and Anjali stitching up dragons hurt in the Spring Games, a tradition designed to prepare for a danger the very leaders who insisted on holding the Games said would never return. Of desperately staunching the blood pulsing out his own arm, lying alone, in agony, on the burning sands at just twelve. Of adults all around him hurting the Weyrwoman in their terror that there might never be another clutch.

“It’s only been a month since we knew they were pregnant,” Ch’joh said into the silence. “But you’ve got a  _ lot _ of ideas.”

“I’ve…” B’sur’s arm warm and heavy on his shoulders, cold air stinging his eyes, watching Reiko and Kenta climb the dragon to take them away. “I’ve thought about this for a long time.”

It took Ch’joh reaching up and gently brushing aside a few tears for J’pei to realize his stinging eyes weren’t just a memory.

“What’s—?”

“I’m really glad you’re here,” J’pei said. “Really, really glad.”

Ch’joh smiled. “Me too.”

~

The colder the weather got, the more cheerful C’gan had become about them eschewing  _ between _ practice in favor of complex aerial maneuvers that kept dragon and rider alike warm from exertion. On the coldest days, he shortened flight practice to just two hours, filling the rest of the morning with teaching ballad reviews and knot-tying practice. The latter, along with gear repair, acted as a way to keep them all occupied for the official training hours while C’gan helped Sanra in the Lower Caverns. Most days he took the youngest weyrlings along too. It wasn’t like they  _ needed _ to know the empty Weyrs’ sigil-knots, and most already recognized rank-knots on sight.

Today N’ris and K’tis quickly reached the stage of any sit-quietly-and-do-repetitive-work task when they started elbowing each other, pointing out things in the room, and giggling. Even knowing C’gan was gone for the day, J’pei still glanced around surreptitiously before calling out to the twins.

“K’tis, N’ris,” J’pei said. They tilted their heads at him. “Why don’t you and Q’resh go build that snow-ramp outside the barracks you were telling me about?” All three lit up. “Just bundle up, and don’t let C’gan see you in the dining cavern before lunch.”

L’mer and Om'riel watched enviously as the younger weyrlings ran out the door whooping. J’pei bit the inside of his mouth. Honestly, he didn’t see the point of  _ any _ of them spending so much time on the knots. He was pretty sure C’gan just felt guilty for his very practical choice to lend Sanra a hand corralling weyrbrats, and thought giving them busy-work made up for abandoning their lessons.

“Hm,” J’pei said loudly, getting a raised eyebrow from Ch’joh. “It’s still morning here, but over the Eastern Ring Islands, it’s got to be the afternoon already.” L’mer and Om'riel looked at him hopefully. “I think we’ve got this. Let’s call it a day.” The two didn’t even wait for him to finish talking, bolting out the door into the bright winter sunlight.

“Wanna dance?” Ch’joh asked with a grin, stretching his arms and shaking out his cramping fingers. J’pei smiled back, nodding. They didn’t even have to practice outside anymore, having dragged spare mattresses to the big empty space behind the rows of bunks. Some dragons picked out their own weyrs once they got big enough to fly easily, even while their riders lived in the barracks. But many preferred to sleep close together, and the ancients had lucked into a particularly big magma chamber, empty and cool before humans stepped foot on Pern, for exactly that use.

J’pei reached out mentally to Surugath as he took Ch’joh’s hand, asking if she wanted to practice dancing too.

_ Sh, _ she thought back.  _ I’m finding the best spot. _

“What?” J’pei asked aloud, startled. He reached further, and she cheerfully let him see through her eyes. She and her five green clutchmates quietly explored the Hatching Grounds, leaping up onto the viewing ledges and tunnels to eye the sands, then gliding down and rolling across it, or walking, one careful footstep at a time, feeling the mild heat through their hides.

J’pei blinked back into his own vision after just a few seconds, to see Ch’joh doing the same, eyes wide, fingers pressed against his lips.

“Those little sneaks,” Ch’joh said gleefully. “They’re  _ scouting.” _

For a brief instant, J’pei was utterly terrified that someone would catch them at it, realize why they were there, and force-feed them all firestone. He almost cried out the fear to Surugath, but her cheer and curiosity still filled up most of his mind. It would be fine. They’d be chased out if discovered, scolded, but everyone knew greens were curious as felines. Their little scouting party would just be another incident of greens getting into things they weren’t supposed to, ignoring rules in favor of “What’s this? What’s that? What’re those?”

Everything would be fine.

An hour later N’ris and K’tis burst into the barracks, giggling like mad and shaking snow off as they ran over to the magma chamber. Ch’joh jumped, but he didn’t slip this time, already so much better at keeping his balance when startled. J’pei helped him back to the ground as they turned to face the twins.

“Weyrwoman Jora  _ knows!” _ N’ris said, coming to a stop so fast he had to spin his arms to keep from falling on his face. J’pei looked over towards the door, but no one else had come in with them. N’ris caught him looking and waved his arms some more, this time with a ‘brushing away’ gesture. “Mianath wasn’t hungry and Q’resh wanted to add decorations to the ramp, it was just us when Nemorth came over.”

“Are you sure she knows?” Ch’joh asked sharply. “A lot of other dragons have seen our girls eat, seen their hides. It doesn’t mean they know.”

“She  _ said _ so,” K’tis said, as his brother took a deep breath. “She’s happy about it!”

J’pei blinked, stunned, speech frozen as surprised delight and hope bloomed up inside him. Jora was happy with the greens being pregnant? Was her dragon? If Nemorth was happy too, would the bronzes follow their queen’s lead? Would their riders?

“What did she say,  _ exactly?” _ Ch’joh asked, as J’pei’s mind ran in circles shouting that this was amazing. Golds were territorial, but if Nemorth  _ approved _ of green clutches in her Hatching ground...

“Like, not a lot,” K’tis said.

“She  _ never _ says a lot,” N’ris added.

“I know, but this time?” Ch’joh prompted, spinning his hands at them to hurry up.

“Uh…” K’tis tilted his head back and rolled his eyes up, thinking. “She said...Nemorth understood how hungry Orpith was and would let her kill first, but Everth needed to wait. Which was fine, Everth wasn’t really hungry anyway she just wanted to stick with Orpith and maybe steal a haunch. Just a haunch! Not a whole herdbeast.”

The hope dampened slightly. “Nemorth has...other experiences with hunger,” J’pei said cautiously. She might simply be sympathetic to other dragons’ hunger pangs.

“It’s not like she hangs back to give the weyrlings first crack at a kill on normal days,” Ch’joh said, chewing the end of his thumb thoughtfully. Now  _ he _ sounded hopeful. “Even when they were still growing like weeds, or ravenous after training.” Sometimes the older riders made derisive comments about Nemorth’s greed overpowering any maternal instincts she might have, but the Aunties said Feyrith and Lidith had been the same.

“That was the  _ first _ thing,” N’ris said. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “She said Orpith and Surugath’s hides are a ‘nice healthy shade, for so far along’.” His excited giggles turned into full peals of laughter as K’tis smugly added, “Surugath wasn’t even  _ there.” _

“She knows,” J’pei and Ch’joh said instantaneously. They looked at each other, J’pei with a growing smile and Ch’joh with a grin wider than the moons.

_ “Told _ you,” N’ris said. “Okay, I wanna see what Q’resh built now, bye!” He spun around and dragged his brother back out the door, K’tis waving over his shoulder at them.

“Nice, healthy shade,” Ch’joh repeated. “That’s gotta be good, right? I mean, the Weyrwoman doesn’t really...smile or anything, but N’ris’s a sensitive kid. If she was angry, he’d have noticed.”

J’pei nodded. Jora knew, she  _ knew _ and she wanted them to know she approved. She never talked to anyone, but she’d talked to the twins. “This is good.”


	18. Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Winter

J’pei woke in the middle of Twelfth Month with humming in his bones. Surugath nudged his shoulder, pulling away to look towards the huge double doors before nudging him again. When he got up and stroked her head, he saw her clutchmates clustered by the doors, all humming softly.

“It’s time, huh?” J’pei kissed Surugath’s beautiful, deep green snout. “I’ll get dressed.” He tugged on three pairs of socks before his boots, bundling up in layers he could shed when they reached the sands. None of the other weyrlings were awake yet. J’pei trudged across the Bowl with the fair of young dragons in the watery early-morning light, rubbing his gloved hands briskly up and down his arms. For the first time, he knew what Gullers meant about being willing to kill for a cup of klah. It was bone cold.

“Found a good spot?” J’pei asked when they reached the Hatching Ground. Surugath didn’t answer, gliding in a figure-eight a few times before settling down, and just like that, laid her first egg.

J’pei’s breath caught.

It was mottled, like Nemorth’s were, soft-looking, seeming to glow from the birthing-fluid and thin sunlight shining through the high entrance tunnels. When Surugath laid the second egg, J’pei took a tentative step forward, and realized, looking at them in comparison to her, that Surugath’s eggs were only half the size of Nemorth’s usual.

“Oh, love,” J’pei breathed out, words inaudible over the dragons’ humming, but loud and clear in his heart. “They’re beautiful.”

By the time any other weyrfolk realized something was up, Surugath had laid three more. Nearly every other green dragon in Benden Weyr and a few blues perched curiously on the upper ledges now. J’pei managed to wrench his loving gaze away from Surugath when he heard feet crunching along the sands of the main entryway, and beamed at the stunned workers from the Lower Caverns.

“Isn’t she amazing?” J’pei said, pride and elation bubbling over inside him. “Look at them!” Surugath stretched her neck, preening, and mantled her wings.

“Well I’ll be,” Felena said softly.

More people crowded in, riders now, and children. A few of Surugath’s clutchmates glided down at her plaintive cry, and settled on the sands between her and the entrance. The spectators chuckled good-naturedly and backed off a little.

“What is going on here?”

J’pei steeled himself at the sound of the deep, irate voice.

“T’bor, your wing should be getting ready for the Bitra patrol. D’rees, stop snickering, it’s unbecoming a dragonrider. Headwoman, what in Faranth’s name is everyone gawking at?”

“Perhaps, Weyrleader,” Headwoman Manora said in a painfully icy voice. “You’d already know that, if you hadn’t spent all Turn avoiding your son.”

R’gul finally reached the edge of the crowd, but Namith and Onth blocked his view; they found it great fun to lean to either side when he tried to step around them. “Move,” he ground out between his teeth. Neither young dragon obeyed. A moment later, a wave of draconic mental authority from Hath blasted through the Hatching Ground. J’pei and several other more sensitive riders clutched at their heads, cringing from the almost-voice. Namith and Onth yelped and rolled to either side, leaving a clear path towards the growing clutch. R’gul strode forward, furious at the delay.

“Now _what—”_

Surugath lunged forward and _roared._

R’gul staggered back. Everyone by the entrance clapped hands over their ears. J’pei, the closest to the sound, thanked his lucky stars he’d still had his own hands up.

“Surugath requests that everyone give her and her eggs some space, thank you,” J’pei said loudly once his dragon went silent. Surugath chuffed, and circled her clutch protectively. Even with the tension, J’pei couldn’t keep the proud smile from coming back. “She’s laid _five!_ And she’s not done yet! Have you ever seen anything as beautiful as them?” He looked happily at the eggs, and then back at his father. “I did the math while she was laying, and it’s been three months since her mating flight, just like it would be for a queen, so it’ll probably be about five weeks for them to hatch, too.”

R’gul stared for a long, hard minute, then turned back to the crowd. “Everyone _out._ You have jobs to do. T’bor, have your seconds lead the Bitra patrol, I want every wingleader in the council room, _now._ And get me C’gan!”

~

“I’m seriously impressed,” Esme told Ch’joh, leaning against his side as they watched J’pei adoringly fuss over Surugath and her eggs. “Seriously. I _know_ you must have seen this coming. How the _hell_ did you keep it a secret?”

“You know us featherheads,” Ch’joh said, smirking at her noise of frustrated curiosity. “No, seriously yourself, _that’s_ how.”

 _“...ah,”_ Esme said.

She and Gullers were the only two Lower Caverns workers left in the Hatching Ground, everyone else chased back to work. They had, in fact, been chased back to work too, and promptly snuck in again. The few riders attempting to linger got blistering invectives from their wingseconds to clear out. Which left just the weyrlings, less than an hour after being discovered.

Gullers walked deliberately over the sands, frequently stopping to press her hand against them, and a few times against a wall.

“She’s usually so friendly,” Esme mused, at the latest hiss from Surugath. None of the other dragons were allowed anywhere near her clutch except, interestingly, Orpith.

“Huh,” Ch’joh said, tilting his head to the side as Surugath shoved her snout under Namith’s wing to bowl her over-and-away, while Orpith scratched at the sand by one egg. “You think she’ll let Namith and Reeth closer when—”

“The sands are too cold,” Gullers said from behind them. They both jumped. “I know how to heat them but not how to explain it to the dragons. Have any of you talked to the Weyrwoman?”

“Sort of?” Ch’joh said. “The twins met her at the feeding grounds a few days ago, and she implied she knew about. Uh. This. Which makes sense. She’s the only rider alive who’s ever had a pregnant dragon before.”

“But she didn’t tell you how to heat the sands?” Gullers asked, frowning.

“They feel warm to me,” Ch’joh said. “Not all scorching like they did when I Impressed Namith, but doesn’t that take time? I thought you had a...a series of hot pipes under here or something.”

Gullers stared for a second, then shook her head. “It’s a geothermal system that dragons connect with in a similar way to reading the wind. _We_ don’t have anything to do with it. I can only sense it, not fully _connect_ with it.”

“Uh…” Ch’joh was completely lost.

“I’ll talk to the Weyrwoman,” Guller said, nodding decisively. “She probably forgot that the greens wouldn’t have anyone to teach them, not the way Nemorth had Feyrith. If she even _did_ teach her; it might be instinctive for golds.”

“Er, thanks!” Ch’joh called after her as she stalked towards the stairs leading to the tunnel connecting the Council Room, and Jora and R’gul’s weyrs. He turned to Esme. “Did we fuck something up?”

“I don’t know…” Esme said. “The sands _started_ getting hot _before_ Nemorth laid her last two clutches, and I don’t remember the others, but I’ve never heard how it happens before, either.”

“Shit.”

“It’ll be fine,” Esme said. “Firelizards clutch on beaches in all the stories, and the northern ones get _way_ colder than this.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Excuse me,” an imperious voice said. Ch’joh turned; Namith and three of her clutchmates lounged comfortably in front of the entrance, completely blocking two brownriders from getting in. “If you would please make way.”

“I dunno,” Ch’joh said, grinning at the speaker. It was P’rid, R’gul’s wingsecond who managed to be even more full of himself than S’ten. He bore a wax tablet under one arm. “They look pretty comfy, I’d hate to disturb them. Why don’t you come back later?” Or take the long way around, going to the same tunnel Gullers had just left through. Or not come back at all.

The teen next to P’rid smiled easily. Shards, was that F’nor? Ch’joh had barely seen him at all since Impressing. “I’d hate to disturb them too, but I don’t mind waiting. Why don’t we sit down, P’rid?”

The older man visibley swallowed the impulse to demand F’nor address him by title; riders of equal rank were not obliged to, and flying with the Weyrleader granted him authority in some situations, not higher rank. “I have been directed, with utmost urgency, to begin recording details of this clutch.” He brandished his tablet at Namith. “For the archives.”

Namith opened one eye, so she could look at Ch’joh while ignoring P’rid. _I am not actually very comfy,_ she told him. _But I don’t think Surugath wants them any closer._

Ch’joh glanced over his shoulder. J’pei walked over to him and Esme, nodded a greeting to the two brownriders, and then crossed his arms instead of saying anything.

“J’pei, congratulations,” F’nor said. He carried a wax tablet too, and twirled its stylus between his fingers. “Please tell Surugath congratulations as well, when she’s a little less busy.”

“Thank you,” J’pei said. “I will.”

“The Weyrleader requires all details of _all_ clutches to occur in Benden to be entered in the archives,” P’rid told J’pei.

“Hm.” He turned to Surugath. She hissed loudly. He turned back to P’rid. “She says no.”

“Nemorth always hates letting anyone close, too,” Esme pointed out. “You’ll just have to make a count from a distance and tell—”

 _“This is dragonrider business,”_ P’rid snapped. Esme jerked back. Even F’nor looked surprised. Ch’joh put a supportive hand on Esme’s back, seeing J’pei’s hands clench into fists.

“If this is not _Weyr_ business,” J’pei said, tucking his arms behind his back to conceal the tense fists. “Then it is purely _Surugath’s_ business. Please respect her wishes in this.”

“That’s not—” P’rid cut himself off and inhaled slowly. Then he looked over the lounging dragons at J’pei with a less pompous, more appealing expression. “You know none of the exams hurt them at all.”

J’pei nodded slightly. Ch’joh rolled his eyes. Of course he knew that. He’d snuck into the archives to satisfy his own curiosity all the time when he was younger, hadn’t he? And none of the secret green stories mentioned eggs being hurt just by measuring their circumferences or whatever. Ch’joh could have told P’rid that J’pei already knew that and didn’t care. P’rid gestured hopefully to his deterrents. J’pei shook his head.

“Her instinct to protect her eggs is a noble one,” P’rid said, trying again. “But unnecessary.”

“And as junior barterer Esme reminded you,” J’pei said firmly. “Nemorth made it clear that exams are unnecessary.”

“They’re not hatching for over a month,” F’nor pointed out. “Why don’t you give her some time to calm down?”

“Oh, like how Nemorth ever calmed down?” P’rid said sarcastically. He narrowed his eyes at J’pei, then pointed with his stylus. “I am here on orders. Step aside.”

J’pei looked at him with the most disgusted expression Ch’joh had ever seen him make. “Surugath gave you her answer.”

P’rid...couldn’t actually do anything, Ch’joh realized. This wasn’t like the spat with F’lar, when Mnementh psychically pressured Namith. A brown dragon was no more capable of giving orders than a blue or green was. If J’pei refused to accept P’rid’s human-issued authority, the man was flat out of luck.

“And isn’t that alone worthy of the archives?” F’nor said pleasantly. Weird how someone related to F’lar could be so diplomatic. Or maybe that was why? Sailing through the wingleader’s wake, soothing ruffled feathers. “Surugath has a firm opinion on letting people near her clutch. How interesting.”

“If you would stop being so—” P’rid began to say.

 _I am VERY much not comfy,_ Namith said, surging to her feet. She snapped out her wing as she rose, knocking both brownriders back. _Make them go away._

“Come on, P’rid,” F’nor said, out of sight behind Namith’s unfurled wings, snapped out at a quieter volume than all his earlier niceties. “Just report back to your wingleader for now.”

When Namith settled back down, both brownriders were gone. J’pei sagged, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Stubborn old fool,” Esme muttered. “Oh, not _you,”_ she muttered, when J’pei gave her a clearly fake look of affront. “I’d better get back to work, though, before he thinks to snitch on me to Manora.” She gave her brother a hug, and left.

“So…” Ch’joh said, into the awkward silence, only broken by the sound of Surugath grumbling behind them. “What do you wanna bet on him coming back with some bronze to enforce things?”

“If he does, it’ll be Hath,” J’pei said, frowning. “The Weyrleader won’t want to look weak by admitting to anyone else his wingsecond needed help. He’ll be pissed enough as it is by F’nor witnessing all that.”

“Yeah, sounds about right,” Ch’joh said.

~

Hath did come, as J’pei predicted, but not to back up P’rid. He came with the Weyrleader himself, in the late afternoon.

Long before that, even before lunch, C’gan showed up with an extremely irritable expression. J’pei resisted the urge to herd everyone into line; this wasn’t training, even if the entire weyrling class was still there, not really knowing what else to do.

“You lot,” C’gan said, standing with arms crossed a few yards in from the entrance, pitching his voice across the sands. The young riders ambled over, their dragons sleeping or chasing each other for fun. “New training regime, starting tomorrow. Endurance. The kitchen girls will pack you lunch; we’ll be flying as far as we can every day. _All_ day.”

“Even afternoons?” R’shi asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes,” C’gan said. “In fact, you, N’tsu, and the blues begin today. Go bundle up. Wingleader C’vrel has volunteered to supervise you this afternoon, while the greens and I…” C’gan fixed J’pei with a disappointed look. “Discuss this.” The disappointment slid off like water, pride and delight in Surugath too strong to give it purchase.

F’nor came by again during lunch, when only J’pei and the dragons remained. Esme had snuck a handkerchief of food in for him. Ch’joh reluctantly left with everyone else, when J’pei asked him to make sure nobody harassed them over this in the dining cavern.

“They’re still holed up in the Council Room,” F’nor said, sitting down on the stands next to J’pei. Surugath insisted he eat over there, instead of curling up with her, in case crumbs attracted pests. “Mnementh is passing Canth the best bits.”

“Any of them visit the archives?” J’pei asked curiously. “Or do they care more about filling them than reading them?”

F’nor laughed. Sitting in casual off-duty clothing, not striding somewhere in riding leathers, it was so easy to see that he was only Om'riel’s age. “K’ban and M’ridin insisted on dragging some out, in fact! For opposite reasons from each other.” He leaned back, propping his elbows up on the tier behind them. “K’ban’s a believer, you know.”

“Or at least it suits him to be one,” J’pei said. K’ban was clutchmates with R’gul, S’lel, and long-dead F’lon. Had been one of F’lon’s supporters, all those Turns ago, and now seemed to slip monthly between ambition and apathy.

“Better than it _not_ suiting him,” F’nor said. “He thinks this is a great stroke of luck, that we can refill the Weyrs even with Nemorth so...herself.”

J’pei’s heart attempted to leap out of his chest. They were...the council was thinking the same thing he was? They’d get to do this again, get to make the other Weyrs _live_ again? He wouldn’t even have to convince them himself—

“Everyone else is against it, of course,” F’nor went on casually. J’pei’s heart dropped down to the pit of his stomach. Of course? _Of course?_ “That’s why M’ridin wanted Weyrleader J’ash’s logs too. K’ban’s going on about rates of repopulation, about greens waiting to chew firestone for a few Turns, to get a couple clutches out of them before they join the fighting wings. M’ridin’s more concerned about how small even the biggest hatchlings were.”

“Hundreds of small dragons who can flame Thread are better than _none,”_ J’pei said, incredulous, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. Couldn’t they see that? Wasn’t it obvious?

“One good-sized dragon that’s got the _stamina_ for a full Fall and the _stomach_ for enough flame is better than a dozen small beasts,” F’nor said, oblivious to the disbelief pouring off of J’pei. “That’s what F’lar says. I’m still making up my mind. The Weyrleader’s hung up on tithes and feeding everyone again, and much as I hate to admit it, he’s making good points. Smaller dragons eat more _proportionately_ to themselves than big ones, so they take more resources and flame less Thread. We’ve got a long time until the Pass. This clutch is going to strain us enough as is, it’s not like more would be worth the hassle.” 

“Not _worth_ it,” J’pei spat, furious. “Is that how you see us?”

F’nor jumped in his seat. “What? No!” He caught J’pei’s expression and winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not _you.”_

“Who, then?” J’pei asked. “My clutchmates? Because Nemorth dared grace Benden with a bronze-free clutch for once, so we’re all useless? _Surugath’s_ clutch?”

“No, I…” F’nor gestured wildly to the eggs in question. “I mean, doing this on purpose, again and again. Making more dragons that won’t fight Thread as efficiently—”

“They haven’t even hatched yet,” J’pei said. “You have _no idea_ what their stamina and flame will be. J’ash’s wings never even saw a Pass.”

“I’m just telling you what the council’s saying,” F’nor said, holding up his hands defensively. “I thought you’d want to know.”

J’pei pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do. Thank you.” He sighed. “You’re saying K’ban’s the only one in favor of more?”

“Yes,” F’nor said. He rose to leave. “Good luck with, you know…” He gestured again. “All this.”

Only the green weyrlings came back after lunch, the rest packed off with wingleader C’vrel. The riders clustered around J’pei, at the sweet spot in the sands where Surugarth didn’t mind how far away _he_ was or how close _they_ were. The dragons briefly greeted their riders, and went back to playing tag around the edge of the Hatching Ground, far from their broody friend.

J’pei quietly relayed the bare bones of what F’nor told him.

“Do any of you want to argue at all, for more clutches?” J’pei asked. “When they bring it up?” A stab of guilt for not thinking to ask that last month, after talking to the Aunties, ached in his chest. He’d been so keen on secrecy and on monitoring all the dragons’ health, he hadn’t talked enough with their riders.

“Gonna be hard enough keeping ‘em from feeding Reeth firestone _before_ she clutches,” Om'riel said glumly. He crossed his arms tight over his chest and shrugged awkwardly. “One’s enough.”

“Orpith _really_ wants to try flaming,” N’ris said. K’tis nodded enthusiastically.

“Flaming sounds more interesting than eggs,” P’gyo agreed.

“Do _you_ want to argue with them?” Ch’joh asked, watching J’pei intently.

“I…” J’pei took a deep breath, rattled by F’nor’s comments. By the knowledge only one bronzerider supported additional clutches. He thought of Ch’joh driven to his knees by Namith’s pain when Mnementh lost his cool, of brown Botelath obeying bronze Falarth instead of his rider P’trikor, of Jora rooting in the compost, her golden queen, who _should_ have been able to command the bronzes, controlled by them instead.

All the dreams he’d shared with Ch’joh just a few days ago felt naive now, as childish as his dreams of a special first time. F’nor was half-right; Thread _was_ a long time away. What mattered was _now._ “I just want to get through this.”

Ch’joh’s face fell. He reached for J’pei’s hand. “I thought you wanted—”

“Weyrlings! Here! Now!”

Everyone jumped. Hath loomed in the main entrance. R’gul strode past him across the sands. C’gan followed, looking just as irritable as before and twice as put-upon. F’lar came too, lugging a heavy canvas sack, sporting a smug smirk. No, they’d brought the firestone _now?_ Already? J’pei never should have hoped for even a moment to breathe.

“That means _all_ of you,” R’gul said, scowling at Surugath while the other green dragons and their riders arranged themselves in a rough line halfway between the clutch and the entrance. “You’ve demonstrated a lack of responsibility that needs to be addressed.”

 _No._ J’pei’s fingers itched as Surugath ceased circling, digging her claws into the sand, tail lashing.

“Surugath won’t leave her eggs, sir,” J’pei said. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. How had he _ever_ wanted this man’s approval?

“A rider’s job,” R’gul said, directing the scowl fully at J’pei. “Is to balance out their dragon’s instincts with human rationality.”

“Yes,” J’pei agreed easily. The rest of the Dragonrider Duty Ballad tumbled through his mind. He said nothing more. R’gul waited. J’pei blinked slowly, uncurling his hands. There were so many other duties, more important ones, and R’gul could figure that out for himself.

Namith dropped her head down on J’pei and Ch’joh’s shoulders to stare at the Weyrleader. Further down the line, the four younger greenriders fidgeted, scuffling the sand, plucking at their clothes. Reeth flopped down behind everyone else.

R’gul narrowed his eyes. A moment later Hath commanded Surugath to get in line; J’pei bit down hard on his tongue to keep from visibly flinching as the wave of short-tempered _annoyance_ washed over him to Surugath. Even stronger came back her firm _no._ Surugath’s stubborn refusal to comply bolstered J’pei’s resolve, and her growing irritation at everyone pushed him to break his silence with a burning question.

“Will the dragons and riders who chased us be joining this lecture?”

 _“What?”_ R’gul snapped.

Ch’joh jumped in when J’pei hesitated. “This is ‘cause we forgot to chew firestone before our darlings rose, isn’t it?” Next to R’gul, C’gan nodded warily, experienced with Ch’joh’s questions. “And all the blues and browns and bronzes that rose too, none of their riders asked us if we’d sterilized our greens already.”

“Riders are responsible for their _own_ dragons—” R’gul began.

“Lot of ‘em were bragging about expecting to get our firsts, too,” Ch’joh said, talking over the Weyrleader. Fierce pride burned in J’pei for his friend. “So they can’t say they _forgot_ we’d never risen before. Maybe you didn’t hear, since you never pay attention to _anything_ around here—”

“That is _enough—”_ R’gul slashed his hand through the air.

“—and I know you think _we’re_ all idiots, but you know the girls are reliable even if you don’t _care_ about them, and they heard all the bragging too—”

“Disrespect will _not_ be tolerated—”

“Sir!” J’pei cut in. “No one’s given us any respect to give back to you!” R’gul rocked back on his heels, momentarily stunned into silence. Likely more by the fact that it was _J’pei_ interrupting him than the words. J’pei took advantage of the shock to ask another question he already knew the answer to. “Did the bluerider who tried to coerce one of us even get a slap on the wrist from his wingleader?”

“That is not your concern,” R’gul said.

“Well it sure as shit’s our problem!” Ch’joh shouted.

“Do you want to be banned from Gathers for a whole Turn, instead of one season?” R’gul asked.

Ch’joh snapped his mouth shut, glaring. F’lar looked amused at the exchange, his expression a failed attempt at neutral, corner of his mouth twitching out of its flat line, eyes crinkling up. C’gan pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut, rubbing at one temple. Om'riel half-turned from everyone during the shouting, burying his face in Reeth’s neck.

C’gan broke the tense silence. “We’re here to give you the proper firestone dose,” he said, dropping his hand. R’gul huffed through his nose, but finally looked away from Ch’joh to gesture F’lar forward. “Wingleader F’lar,” C’gan went on, “has volunteered to go over the correct procedure and effects.”

C’gan _must_ have given the lecture to Nemorth’s previous clutch; he’d been the Weyrlingmaster even then, and _those_ greens hadn’t gotten pregnant. But F’lar’s wing trained with firestone. They weren’t supposed to, not since the safety ban, but it was like fighting with wooden knives. The wingleaders could have their wings do whatever they thought best, as long as the _other_ wingleaders never directly witnessed it. F'lar had the recent, personal experience to remember things like, “your dragon will disgorge ash hours later; there’s a designated ash-corner near the midden,” and, “you should shout aloud before your dragon flames, in case they forget to shout mentally, so everyone clears out of the way.”

J’pei listened intently to the lecture, heart still pounding from questioning his father. The longer it went, the more the younger riders fidgeted. Even Om'riel’s upset at the earlier shouting shifted back to antsiness. F’lar had to pause for a moment when Onth goaded Reeth into a new game of tag. J’pei bit his tongue again at Hath’s stern order to return. He couldn’t make out the words, but it _hurt._ F’lar sped up his talking speed after that, wrapping up with, “Any questions?”

“Um…” Om'riel’s face scrunched up in thought. N’ris and K’tis looked at each other, making a few rapid hand signs, shrugging in synch. “Why’d you bring so _much?”_ Om'riel asked, pointing to the heavy sack. “Onth and Everth only need _one_ rock today, right?” The traditional process for sterilizing greens, F’lar told them, was to chew one rock a day for an entire sevenday. The sack contained enough for both dragons to engage in a traditional Games practice, chewing and flaming for several hours. “And they can just go get more from the shed tomorrow?”

“The firestone,” R’gul said, “is for _all_ of you.” He’d regained his composure, broad shoulders relaxing, hands tucked behind his back. J’pei copied the pose.

“Of course, sir,” J’pei said, loud enough to be heard over the cries of protest from everyone. Ch’joh’s was simply a string of curse words. “We understand that all of our greens need to chew before their next, or first, flights. But only Everth and Onth will do so today.”

R’gul straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Ch’joh said flippantly, flicking his fingers towards the entrance.

J’pei swallowed a smile. This was _not_ the time. “Nemorth used to take two days to lay her clutches,” he said. Though her latest had only taken a day. “Surugath will begin the…” _sterilization process she doesn’t understand,_ “...firestone regimen one sevenday after she lays her last egg. Orpith flew the day after she did—” _and is just as dark green now, not that you noticed,_ “—so she’s likely to start laying soon if she _is_ pregnant.”

“Greens fly every three to four months,” R’gul countered. “We cannot risk this happening again.”

“I know, sir.” J’pei tightened his grip around his wrist behind his back, out of sight. “And we also cannot risk harming the dragons. We don’t know if firestone would induce a miscarriage, or how hard that would be on the dragons. That’s why Namith and Reeth won’t be chewing today either. And if Surugath isn’t done laying...” he gulped, “I don’t know what it would do to her eggs.”

“...if disaster can be prevented,” R’gul said slowly. J’pei burned with anger. _Disaster?_ Why wouldn’t R’gul see how much _good_ green clutches could do for the Weyr, for Pern? “It will be. Dragons heal quickly.” He gestured to F’lar. “Wingleader. Distribute the firestone.”

“Yes, sir,” F’lar said. He walked down the line of weyrlings, placing a large rock each in P’gyo and K’tis’s hands. He tried to hand rocks to N’ris, Om'riel, and Ch’joh as well, but they stuck their hands behind their backs, forcing him to drop the rocks on the sand.

“You’d best save that for your training sessions, wingleader,” J’pei said when F’lar reached him, quiet enough that only F’lar and Ch’joh heard. F’lar held J’pei’s gaze for a long moment. His hand twitched back towards the sack...but with a tiny sigh, he dropped the firestone on the sand instead.

After a quick glance at J’pei for his nod of approval, P’gyo and K’tis fed their firestone to Onth and Everth. The dragons chewed enthusiastically, broadcasting delight at the new taste and sensation of rocks breaking between their teeth. Namith sniffed curiously at hers. “Later, love,” Ch’joh murmured. Namith snorted and settled back on her haunches, pretending she hadn’t been interested.

It would take some time before their internal organs processed the firestone enough to produce flame, but… “Please get outside,” J’pei said. The ceiling of the Hatching Ground was very high, but none of them had _practice_ directing their flames. It would be all too easy to scorch the eggs.

“The middle of the Bowl should be far enough from the weyrs,” R’gul said, stepping to the side, sweeping one arm towards the entrance. Hath took two huge steps to the side, allowing the two greens passage out. They could have flown out the upper entrances, but this allowed R’gul some show of control. He hadn’t missed P’gyo and K’tis looking to J’pei for direction.

“Remember to shout before flaming,” F’lar said, as Onth and Everth bounded past. Their riders followed at a run. Orpith and N’ris tried to leave too, but R’gul grabbed N’ris’s arm roughly.

“No one leaves until they chew,” R’gul said sternly.

“Let go!” N’ris tried to pull away. Orpith reared up and shrieked at Hath, who bellowed back. P’gyo and K’tis turned back, eyes wide. J’pei waved at them sharply— _get out!_ —and K’tis nodded, putting a hand on P’gyo’s back to hustle the youngest greenrider out of the Hatching Ground before things got uglier.

“Weyrleader!” J’pei strode forward. _Don’t run, don’t run, keep the dignity your father’s losing, you have to be calm._ C’gan said nothing, did nothing, standing stone-faced. F’lar did nothing either, but his expression was far from stony. Anticipatory, calculating. “For Faranth’s sake, give us _time_ to obey your orders!”

“Time is what we don’t have,” R’gul snapped, marching N’ris back to the dropped firestone. J’pei kept pace, catching N’ris when R’gul let go with a shove. “If they’re not pregnant already, they’ll rise again any day now—”

 _“Sharding hell!”_ Ch’joh shouted, his frustration echoed by a shriek from Namith. “Is your brain made of cheese, not meat? Look at their hides!”

“You are banned from Gathers for an entire _Turn,_ weyrling!” R’gul shouted back, spinning towards him. “Now _chew!”_

No one obeyed. R’gul puffed up. Hath did too. J’pei dropped to his knees, too distracted to brace for the mental blast of furious command. The other riders reacted a split second later, not feeling it until after it hit their dragons. Ch’joh swore. N’ris and Om'riel flinched. Orpith twisted away from Hath. Namith and Reeth plastered themselves against the sand, shoulders and wing-joints up, heads low.

Surugath reared up on her haunches, roaring.

_SHUT UP, YOU BULLY!_

Hath jerked his head back in shock, wherry-necked, swirling red eyes turning yellow in confusion. Greens disobeyed regular orders all the time, but they _always_ followed the mental commands. So did blues and browns. It was one reason bronzes were wingleaders; obeying them was instinctive and automatic. Dragons who didn’t obey a bronze’s order to dodge during the Games could get badly hurt; worse than hurt in Threadfall.

But they weren’t in the air now. And even _in_ the air, mating flight instincts overrode everything else. Maybe brooding instincts did the same.

J’pei pushed himself back to his feet, helped by N’ris, and watched R’gul’s face as he reached the same conclusion. The green dragons wouldn’t obey. He couldn’t _make_ them obey, not unless he threatened their riders, and surely even that would be a step too far for the Weyrleader.

And there was F’lar, watching, just the barest hint of smugness to his features. The Weyrleader might be decided by the senior gold, but that meant they only had until the next flight to prove themselves a capable leader. The bronzeriders were convinced their collective will could influence the flight; after all, hadn’t their collective will controlled the queen’s diet? Everyone thought F’lar was too young; but age was the _only_ thing swaying their favor towards R’gul.

 _I hate helping him,_ J’pei thought. Surugath hummed agreement in her mind. Mnementh was all right, when he wasn’t bossing people around. F’lar was _always_ bossing people around.

The only way R’gul had left to keep control was to pretend he agreed with the delay. J’pei could _see_ the instant R’gul decided to switch tack; he schooled his shock into calm impassivity, tucked his hands behind his back again, and turned to Ch’joh.

“You were saying, about their hides?”

Ch’joh snarled. “You’ve got _eyes,_ you insufferable ass.”

“Are you eager to take on midden duty every Gather this Turn, as well?”

“...Surugath and Orpith are _dark_ green,” Ch’joh said through his clenched jaw. “Just like Nemorth was a _dark_ gold before she laid. It’s a little hard to tell if Namith and Reeth are getting darker too, but if you put them right next to Onth or Everth there’s a difference. And it’s _not_ the bright, glowing emerald they got before their first flights.”

R’gul stared slowly at each green dragon in turn. “I see.” He nodded. “Surugath and Orpith will chew in a sevenday. If Reeth and Namith continue to get darker, they will also wait; but if they plateau or lighten, they will chew immediately.”

The Weyrleader walked out without another word, not risking a response from anyone. Hath grumbled and flew out an upper entrance. C’gan sighed, and gathered up the discarded firestone, casting a long-suffering look at them all before walking out too. F’lar smiled broadly, nodded to J’pei, and left.

“Good riddance,” Ch’joh muttered.

~

Ch’joh expected the gawkers to come back, or that pompous wingsecond, or the dragons not out on patrol. No one did. Maybe Hath hadn’t only yelled at _them_ today. Om'riel and N’ris whispered to each other for a bit, and then asked Ch’joh if he thought they ought to go find a rider from the Circle, fill them in on everything the Weyr leadership had said and done today.

“Good idea,” Ch’joh said. He very carefully didn’t look over at J’pei, who they’d normally ask this sort of thing. J’pei had silently walked straight over to Surugath once his father left and wrapped his arms around her, face smushed against her neck. “I think, uh…I don’t think N’rissa or D’rees are patrolling right now. And if you can’t find them, ask one of the grounded greens.”

The two nodded enthusiastically and dashed off, their dragons following. Namith trilled a query at her tag playmates leaving. Reeth trilled back, and Namith daintily made her way across the sands to her rider.

 _Onth and Everth are having a lot of fun flaming,_ Namith told Ch’joh, circling him. _When do I get to do that? Is it tomorrow? Have you ever flamed?_

“Not tomorrow, but soon,” Ch’joh said. Namith stilled just long enough for him to scratch an itch under her chin, grumbling that even tomorrow wasn’t ‘soon’. “Trust me, it’s more soon than you want for harking up all the ash afterwards.”

 _That’s stupid. Why can’t the ash come out the same time as the fire and be done with?_ She went still again, but didn’t direct him to an itch. Ch’joh stroked along the nearest bit of her, waiting. _Nemorth wants to teach me to talk to the Hatching Ground!_

Namith circled very quickly for a minute, and then settled down with her tail curled around her. She looked so like an extremely large, green feline imitating a loaf of bread that Ch’joh laughed.

_She says Surugath is busy and that this is important and she has never tried teaching anyone before and forgot we wouldn’t know how. I need to listen to her. Don’t let anyone bite my tail while I listen._

“No problem,” Ch’joh said. Gullers had gotten the Weyrwoman to see her after all, then. Good.

After a minute or so, Namith began humming very, very quietly. Deciding there wasn’t much he could do to help unless she told him, Ch’joh made his way to J’pei. Or, well, as close to J’pei as Surugath would let him. She didn’t hiss, mindful of Namith concentrating, maybe, but she bared her teeth. Ch’joh prudently stopped walking.

“J’pei?”

No response. Damn. Was he ignoring Ch’joh, or so caught up in his own head he didn’t hear? This called for a different approach.

“Surugath?”

She tilted her head to the side, teeth no longer bared, and chirped. Ch’joh’s shoulders lost a knot of tension. She might not talk to him in his head like Namith did with J’pei, but she _did_ talk to him, in her own way.

“After you’ve laid all these eggs and they hatch, do you want to, uh, do it all again in a few months? Half a Turn, I guess?”

Surugath tilted her head to the other side, then snaked her neck around to look at her eggs, back to him, back to the eggs, back to him, and made a sort of confused teakettle sound. Whether that meant she thought her answer was so obvious the very question was confusing, or she didn’t understand what time had to do with more eggs, or what, Ch’joh didn’t know. Which was exactly what he needed; an excuse to make J’pei play relay.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Ch’joh said apologetically, still a careful distance away. “I don’t speak dragon. I’m dumb like that. Maybe J’pei could tell me what you meant?”

Surugath chuffed, not fooled at all, but a moment later J’pei lifted his face up, looked at Ch’joh with red-rimmed eyes, and said, “She doesn’t think your question matters when she’s got these ones to look after, and to ask again when they hatch.”

“What about you?” Ch’joh asked quickly. J’pei didn’t even sigh, just stared at him for a second before turning away again. “Oh, come on! We’ve got a week to convince them, don’t we? Longer for Namith, if she changes her mind about how fun playing with fire sounds. I thought you wanted—”

“The only thing I’ve ever been allowed to _want_ is a dragon, and now they don’t even think I should!” J’pei yelled, spinning around with his fists clenched. “I love Surugath more than anything and everyone acts like I should be _disappointed_ to have her, and I want to meet her hatchlings so badly it _hurts,_ but my father would rather risk the others miscarrying than lay more! He didn’t even know if she was _done_ yet and tried to force her!”

J’pei shook, breathing hard, glaring at Ch’joh.

Who, damn it, desperately wanted to fix this somehow. “If we...look, I know he’d never listen to us, but you said K’ban approves, and if we can talk the rest around...”

“They _won’t,”_ J’pei ground out between his teeth. “They’re _allowed_ to want things, and they all want to believe they’ve got a shot at the Weyrleadership. Which means they won’t argue with him, just each other, because what if they did and someday someone argued with _them?”_

“Fucking assholes,” Ch’joh muttered reflexively. He kicked at the sand. “They whine about Nemorth not rising but here we are, handing them a solution in a basket, and they knock the damn thing over.”

“Can we just…” J’pei closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Surugath. “Can we not talk about it? Right now?” His voice got even quieter. “Going to be hard enough trying to get the girls to Stand.”

An aching affection twisted up inside Ch’joh at J’pei, convinced he’d never get what he wanted, still trying to get his sisters and everyone else what _they_ wanted.

“Oh, that won’t be too hard,” Ch’joh said far more airily than he felt. “I mean, we can’t let on it was our idea, since we’re clearly so foolish, but I bet the b-riders would _love_ to finally chase girls in the air, not just on the ground.”

Unfortunately they were even more likely to hate having women as competition, since you couldn’t very well pick out green eggs and set them aside like you did with gold ones. Women on blues and browns weren’t going to thrill the men running this place. Ch’joh shoved that thought down; it wasn’t reassuring.

Guessing by J’pei’s shuttered expression, he’d thought the same thing.


	19. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Winter

“Up you get!”

C’gan barged into the barracks, travel horn of klah clasped in one hand, just like he used to their first exhausting month. J’pei fought the urge to pull his blankets over his head, and swung his feet down to the floor instead, reaching for day clothes. Surugath hummed at the back of his mind; he’d dreamt of her eggs hatching into firelizards, dozens of them pouring from each shell, swarming the Weyr to Impress everyone.

“You two are carrying these,” C’gan said, dropping small firestone sacks at the ends of K’tis and P’gyo’s bunks. “Trying to keep the time of day the same. And you’re  _ all _ carrying lunch. Except you.” He fixed J’pei with another of those disappointed looks. “You make sure that dragon of yours doesn’t want for anything, and then you’re running laps and fixing gear all day. You run out of gear to fix, you see what the Headwoman needs done. Any minute you’re not running the Bowl, there better be work in your hands, is that clear?”

J’pei nodded, sharp. Ch’joh muttered something rude in the next bunk over.

“Can I stay?” N’ris asked, tugging a warm tunic on backwards. “Since Orpith rose so soon after—”

“Everyone is doing flight training until their  _ dragon _ knows they need to return,” C’gan snapped. He sighed, took a sip of klah, steam rising from the horn, and his expression softened. “She’ll be fine, lad. The dragons know what they’re about.”

The trudge from barracks to dining cavern took too long. It had taken too long last night, too, when J’pei realized he couldn’t very well sleep on the sands. Was this the real reason the staired weyrs for goldriders were right by the Hatching Ground? Not for the privilege of walking to the dining cavern easily, but to reduce separation anxiety when their dragons eschewed said weyrs for their clutches? Surugath’s hum in his mind turned to wakefulness during the walk, and a happy observation that the sands, never cold to begin with, were already noticeably warmer than yesterday. Namith hummed so smugly it was nearly a purr.

_ Can you watch the eggs while I hunt? _ Surugath asked.  _ I don’t want that bossy brownrider touching them. _

_ Of course, _ J’pei told her. He could handle P’rid. Even if the man grabbed him the way R’gul had N’ris, J’pei had consistently beaten both his father’s wingseconds in wrestling for  _ Turns. _ Before he could change tack from dining cavern to Hatching Ground, though, his stomach rumbled a reminder that he’d barely had any dinner the night before, too upset to eat.

_ You eat first, _ Surugath said firmly. He felt her own hunger bleeding into his.  _ I can wait. _ Namith chirped, and Ch’joh looped his arm around J’pei’s, keeping him with the group.

They passed K’ban’s wing leaving for patrol at the entrance to the dining cavern, some riders yawning at the early hour. K’ban gave C’gan a nod of greeting, stifling a yawn of his own.

None of the weyrlings chatted as they ate breakfast, not with C’gan sitting at the same table and most still half-asleep. J’pei chugged half his klah before touching his food, wanting the boost of focus.

_ I’m hungry, _ Surugath whined, feeling it more strongly as the dregs of sleep fell away. J’pei gulped down his breakfast faster, fighting the urge to put more on his plate; he’d  _ gotten _ enough, if he tried to eat for Surugath too he’d hurt himself.  _ Can’t leave the eggs. Hungry. Can’t leave. HUNGRY. _

“Namith says she can bring Surugath a haunch,” Ch’joh said. J’pei shook his head; Surugath’s answer of  _ No! No blood near the eggs! Bugs! _ filtered through Namith to Ch’joh a second later. “Ah.”

“I’ll be there soon,” J’pei said, thinking it strongly too.

C’gan chivied everyone to their feet the second the last plate cleared, trading dirty dishes for packed lunches at the clean-up station. J’pei jogged over to the Hatching Ground, hearing Namith grumbling about Tagath’s bossiness as the other weyrlings mounted up.

Cold winter sunlight streamed through the upper entrances, painting the sands and eggs in cool tones. Surugath herself gleamed, her hide ever so slightly lighter than the day before. She met J’pei halfway between her clutch and the entrance, nuzzling his chest. He scratched her head-knobs.

_ You’ll keep them away? _ she asked again. The words came with images of P’rid and F’nor from yesterday, holding those wax tablets, blocked by the other greens. He wouldn’t have recognized them if he hadn’t seen them himself, and hadn’t looked through her eyes before.

“Yes,” J’pei promised. Surugath immediately bounced away. J’pei counted again; still ten, same as last night. A lightness spread through his shoulders when Surugath spread her wings and flew to the feeding grounds. The eggs were dry now, their mottling more obvious. Deep pride and contentment sunk into J’pei as he circled them, Surugath’s instincts pulsing through him like her hunger.

When Surugath reached the penned-in herdbeasts, all her focus on their lumbering forms, the bronzeriders entered the Hatching Ground.

“Good morning, Weyrleader,” J’pei said cautiously, coming forward to place himself a dragonlength ahead of the eggs. He counted the riders far faster than the eggs; also ten. All the bronzes, except K’ban out on patrol. Why were they  _ here? _ Surely R’gul didn’t want the greens' flagrant defiance of authority shown off so boldly in front of his competition.

“Is she finished laying?” R’gul asked sharply, pace not slowing.

Alarm shot through J’pei, but Surugath didn’t feel it, focused entirely on selecting her meal. “She didn’t lay any more overnight,” J’pei said. “And she’s gone to feed. When she gets back you can ask her if she still feels egg-heavy.”

“Nemorth never left to eat until the clutch was complete,” R’gul dismissed. He was a bare yard away now, the other bronzeriders only a yard behind  _ him. _ The older ones ignored J’pei completely, eyeing the eggs. The youngest two, D’nol and S’lan, were nervously keeping an eye on the Weyrleader. F’lar was looking at  _ everything, _ the Weyrleader, J’pei, the eggs. Fascinated. Like Gullers with a mechanical puzzle, like he wanted to take them all apart to figure them out.

“Please don’t get closer, sir,” J’pei said, stepping directly into his father’s path.

“We’re here to examine the clutch for the archives,” R’gul said, stepping to the side and forward. J’pei blocked him again, barely believing what he was hearing.

“You can examine just fine with your eyes, right here,” J’pei said, heart pounding. He’d told P’rid Surugath’s answer yesterday. Didn’t what she wanted  _ matter? _ “Surugath doesn’t want anyone close.”

“Surugath should be here, brooding, then.” He shouldered past J’pei. “She can’t care that much if she’s gone.”

“You said it yourself, Nemorth leaves to eat after clutching.” J’pei dug his heels into the sand and grabbed R’gul’s arm. “Back off.”

“Let go, greenrider.”

_ “Leave.” _

“T’bor!” R’gul snapped, eyes locked with J’pei’s. “Handle this!” He was perfectly capable of getting out of J’pei’s grip; everyone knew that, who’d watched him wrestle. Oh. That’s why they were all here. Not  _ despite _ the green’s disobedience, but to grind in R’gul’s authority over the  _ bronzeriders. _

Fuck that.

T’bor sighed and strode over. “Come on, greenie, be reasonable—”

The instant he touched J’pei’s shoulder, J’pei crouched and pivoted, using both hands to swing the surprised Weyrleader into T’bor’s torso, bowling them both over.

_ “I told you to back off!” _ J’pei snarled.

C’rob and D’nol tackled him. They couldn’t keep him pinned until T’bor joined back in. J’pei screamed furiously, wordlessly, as R’gul and the rest of the bronzeriders walked over to the clutch. Both arms twisted behind his back so hard they burned, someone kneeling on his legs, a mouthful of sand and blood.

None of it hurt as much as seeing his father gently, curiously, stroke an egg, and be helpless to stop it.

_ “Leave them alone!” _

R’gul ignored him.

“Feels the same as Feyrith and Lidith’s always did,” Sh’xsa said thoughtfully. “Don’t know how it compares to Nemorth’s.”

“Starker mottling,” F’lar said. He ran both hands from an egg’s crown to where it met the sand, and started digging his fingers in. “How much smaller—”

_ “PICK THAT UP AND I’LL KILL YOU!” _ More than just his own blood flavored his mouth; Surugath’s messy kill echoed in his head. She was too distracted to notice his agitation, but it hooked into her hunger and made her rend her kill more viciously than normal.  _ “HAVE YOU NEVER SEEN A SHAKEN BABY, I’LL KILL YOU KILL YOU KILL YOU—” _

F’lar warily pulled his fingers back out of the sand, holding his empty hands up for J’pei to see. R’gul hummed thoughtfully, then smacked S’lan on the shoulder, snapping, “He’s correct.” S’lan hastily straightened up; he’d crouched down to feel along the base of an egg. “Dragonriders must not harm dragons.” R’gul promptly went back to measuring the nearest egg by hand-spans.

C'vrel and M'ridin, two of the eldest wingleaders, traded places with the three riders pinning J’pei so they could touch the eggs too. J’pei almost bucked them off during the switch, and got a dislocated shoulder for his trouble. He screamed. Surugath froze, a herdbeast leg dangling from her maw, her rider’s physical pain finally breaking through the blood-lust.

“Make careful mental notes,” R’gul told the other bronzes. They hadn’t even brought wax tablets, planning to do this in the brief span of Surugath’s meal. T’bor blew on his palms, wincing, before running just his fingertips along an egg. “I will be recording this in the archives; I want all of you to write your own reports on slate before it’s finalized. We must save every detail.”

_ THEY HURT YOU! _

J’pei sobbed into the sand, screaming in gulps of air and hiccuping them back up with blood and snot mixed with grit. He’d failed Surugath. He’d told her he’d keep everyone away from her eggs for her, that it was safe to go eat, and he’d failed, he’d failed, he’d failed.

“Someone get him up,” R’gul said, standing next to J’pei. The two riders pinning him hauled him to his feet. J’pei spat on R’gul’s face. The Weyrleader sighed, gestured for the riders to angle J’pei’s dislocated shoulder towards him. Beyond the Weyrleader, F’lar was already walking away, talking with T’bor. He didn’t even spare J’pei a glance.

R’gul yanked J’pei’s arm back into place. The pain blacked out his vision. He heard everyone’s footsteps across the sand as they ran out of the Hatching Ground; a moment later wingbeats filled the air.

_ They hurt you! _ Surugath landed next to J’pei, whining anxiously.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. Surugath whined louder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

_ Hurt, you’re hurt, no, no, bad, no, they hurt you, hurt, no, bad, hate them, hurt, no. _ The thoughts barely came as words; J’pei clung to Surugath’s neck with his good arm, her raw distress and anger twisted up in his own. They shook, keening and sobbing.

What if the bronzeriders came back? What if they wanted to record weekly changes for the archives? Daily changes? What if they wanted to examine  _ all _ the clutches? The dragons guarding their clutches wouldn’t help, not if the Weyrleader decided not to care. Waiting for Surugath to go feed had been a nod to propriety, not a necessity. The bronzes were so big they could just  _ sit _ on the greens to keep them out of the way. Just like their riders pinned J’pei to the sand. Any of the bronzeriders could hold N’ris or Om'riel back singled handed—

A vision flashed through his mind of Namith pinned to the sand by bronzes, of the wingleaders trying to contain Ch’joh. That wouldn’t end well for  _ anyone. _

“We have to leave,” J’pei whispered. “We have to leave, we have to get out of here, we can’t let him fight them someone will  _ die—” _

_ OUR WEYR! _ Surugath shouted.  _ OUR NEST! OUR WEYR! _

“I know, love, I know, but we can’t— we can’t—”

Where could they even go? One of the abandoned Weyrs? They’d be found and dragged back in a day. The Eastern Ring Islands? Who knew what was out there. Live in the woods like Ch’joh’s Cloaked Robin stories? Hunt wild herdbeasts? Hug the coastline and learn to fish?

“You’ve quieted down. Thank you.”

J’pei jumped, winced as pain lanced through his shoulder. Surugath reared up, hissing, and mantled her wings around him so he couldn’t see who was there.

“Hm.” The voice hadn’t gotten any closer. “Nemorth says you’re injured.”

A deep, warm calm rolled over them. J’pei and Surugath relaxed together, his shoulders untensing, her wings coming down. Weyrwoman Jora stood a few yards onto the sands, the golden queen slowly walking past her in a wide, circling route to the clutch. Nemorth hummed, replacing her mental comfort with a purely auditory one.

“Weyrwoman,” J’pei said, trying to stand straighter, to sound respectful. His voice broke in the middle of the title, frustrated tears already returning, even as Nemorth’s humming soothed Surugath.

“Shall I summon someone?” Jora asked. “For medical assistance?”

“No,” J’pei said. “Thank you.” He didn’t want her to worry. “A dislocated shoulder. The Weyrleader popped it back into place.”

“It still pained you when you jumped,” Jora said dryly. She began walking towards him slowly, untying the sash over her dress. “A sling will remind you not to move it.”

“Thank you.” J’pei forced himself to stand still as she approached. His legs shook from the effort not to run, or lash out. Surugath warbled anxiously, pressing her head against his side while the Weyrwoman fashioned her sash into a sling and got his strained arm situated in it. This close, unlike at the Hatching Feast, it was easy to see the difference between now and the summer of starvation. Her movements were looser, languid. Her hair was combed, though still not recently washed, and her eyes slowly examined everything instead of darting around.

“I have been informed,” Jora said, even more dryly. “That one ought not expect thanks for doing a small, miniscule, infinitesimal fraction of one’s job.”

“...that’s…” J’pei licked his lips. Jora’s hands fell down to her sides again, sling secured. “That’s…” She waited patiently for him to finish the thought. Confident he wasn’t in danger anymore, Surugath licked J’pei’s face and went back to count her eggs and sniff them anxiously. J’pei turned to watch her, fresh guilt rising. He couldn’t protect them. He couldn’t protect  _ her. _

Jora followed his gaze. “S’loner attempted a similar fuss over Nemorth’s first clutch, for posterity. Feyrith and Lidith never minded their mates’ riders touching their eggs. It doesn’t hurt them, after all.”

“That's what everyone says,” J’pei whispered, turning back to her.

“Nemorth bit Chendith,” Jora said, smiling sardonically at J’pei’s startled blink. “If you check the archives, you’ll see detailed notes for earlier gold’s clutches, and then simply…” she idly twirled one wrist, uncurling her fingers to show her empty palm, “...how many eggs, then how many hatchlings of each color, for Nemorth’s.”

“We’re not allowed in the archives.”

Now it was Jora’s turn to blink in surprise, and then snort softly. “Why isn’t the ink refilled, Jora? Where’s the blank parchment, Jora? Why are the records all out of order, Jora?” She slowly rolled her eyes, as though the small act of expressing disdain exhausted her. “They whine I don’t do the job properly, but ban anyone else from attempting it?”

_ “Tradition,” _ J’pei said, trying to match her dry tone. It would have been impossible even without the tears still choking him; if Ch’joh was a dusty road in summer, Jora was Igen itself.

“Tradition,” Jora repeated, the broad, deep, sardonic smile returning. “States that only queens lay.”

J’pei gulped, nauseated, yesterday’s lecture pounding in his head. She’d known the greens would clutch. She’d known. Why was she bringing up the improperness of it all  _ now? _

Jora narrowed her eyes. “You’re getting too loud to block again.”

“I’m sorry.” What had he done? He wasn’t even talking to Surugath, he didn’t know how to be  _ quiet— _

“The Weyrleader popped your arm back in. Was he the one to pop it  _ out, _ too?”

“I...no, I, I don’t know which one of them—” why was she asking, why did she care, was she angry with him for fighting, for disobeying, for being loud, for causing a fuss, for being so selfish and not thinking of the rest of the Weyr—

“I recall being informed that dragonmen don’t fight each other. Or other people. Informed rather a lot. R’gul and C’vrel never shut up about it, after F’lon died.”

_ Can you even call ten-on-one a fight? _ “I’m sorry.” He could barely hear himself now.

Jora sighed and rubbed two fingers against one temple. “Of course,” she mumbled to herself. “If  _ getting your attention you slug  _ isn’t fighting, I suppose  _ enforcing Weyr discipline _ isn’t either.” She brought her other hand up, so she could rub both temples at once. “What was I talking about?”

“...fighting?”

“No.”

“Um…” He couldn’t think straight.  _ Was the Weyrleader the one to pop it out, too? _ He was in trouble. She was mad. He wasn’t giving the right answer.  _ Come on, greenie, be reasonable _ . What was the right answer? Nemorth was too huge for Surugath to chase off. They’d eat sand and the eggs would— the eggs would— the eggs would—

_ I have them, _ Surugath said, warbling out loud.  _ Nemorth’s helping. J’pei? I have the eggs. It’s okay. Orpith’s coming too. J’pei? _

“Right, tradition,” Jora said, answering her own question. “Only golds laying. Right. Nemorth is from Feyrith’s very last clutch. She’s never seen eggs she didn’t lay herself before.” The Weyrwoman gently pushed at J’pei’s unhurt shoulder to spin him back around.

Surugath had settled down by her clutch to digest, head resting on her front legs, eyes swirling a contented green-blue, one wing extended protectively over the eggs. Nemorth matched the pose on the other side of the clutch. The queen was so huge that her wing covered not only the eggs, but Surugath as well, and her hindquarters and tail curved to form a solid golden circle around them.

_ Nemorth says she’ll help us hatch them, _ Surugath said happily.  _ She’ll bite Hath if he comes back. _

Jora wasn’t angry with him. Nemorth was helping. The other greens wouldn’t have their eggs molested by the bronzeriders. J’pei sobbed in relief, hastily covering his eyes with his good arm, soaking the linen.

“Er…” Jora said awkwardly. She hesitantly patted his back. “Ah. Hm. Ah...there there?” J’pei hiccuped. Jora patted more firmly. “This is much quieter. Thank you.”

A shadow cut through the fat beams of sunlight filling the Hatching Ground. Jora turned to look up; J’pei kept his face down, trying to stop the crying. He already knew this was Orpith and N’ris. The younger weyrling leapt off his dragon as she glided, rolling a ways across the hot sands, springing to his feet and jogging over, all while talking loudly.

“J’pei? Orpith feels weird and she  _ thinks _ it might be time to lay but she’s not  _ sure _ and we wanted to ask Surugath how she felt but she’s not answering Orpith…”

J’pei surreptitiously wiped the remaining tears away, Jora’s hand on his back hotter and steadier than the sand under his feet. He took a deep breath, hoping N’ris wouldn’t notice how red his eyes were. It didn’t work.

“J’pei? Shells, you  _ never _ look like this—” N’ris ran the last few yards, Orpith squeaking in alarm as she reached Surugath. He reached out, putting his hand on the sling. J’pei flinched back from the small jolt of pain. N’ris dropped his hand, eyes wide. “What happened?”

J’pei didn’t know what to say.  _ It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. _ But what if they wanted to examine  _ every _ clutch? Even with Nemorth here, there were so  _ many _ of them. What if...what if they decided to push the firestone issue, claimed they’d found something wrong with Surugath’s eggs?

N’ris’s eyes suddenly went unfocused, at the same moment Orpith hissed angrily.

_ “They touched the eggs?”  _ N’ris shrieked. He looked rapidly between J’pei and the dragons. J’pei tried to answer. He couldn’t get the words out, staring down helplessly at N’ris, miserable, frightened, and desperately ashamed that he couldn’t protect the younger rider. Couldn’t protect  _ any _ of them. N’ris didn’t notice the silence, still listening to Orpith. “They  _ grabbed you?” _

Orpith hissed louder— and cut off with a squawk. N’ris stopped trying to look at everyone at once and turned to stare at the glistening egg Orpith had just laid. Surugath rumble-laughed at Orpith’s surprised expression, and licked her neck.

“Are they…” The shock was gone, N’ris’s voice coming out quieter, more scared. “Are they gonna come back?”

“They might,” Jora said dryly. “And Nemorth will bite them.” She glanced at J’pei from the corners of her eyes. “And the retired dragons will be happy to join everyone in a few days, when the sands are hotter.”

“Oh that’s  _ your _ shawl,” N’ris said, reaching out to touch it again, stopping himself a hair’s breadth away. He blinked at the Weyrwoman like he’d only just noticed her.

“Mm,” Jora said. She patted J’pei’s back once more before stepping away. “I’ll get it from you at the Hatching. Don’t strain that arm.” She slowly walked back to the side entrance, Nemorth humming louder until she was out of sight.

“Wow,” N’ris said, staring after her. “That’s more words than she even said when K’tis and me met her at the feeding grounds.” He looked back at J’pei, and his eyes went wide. “Aw, shells. Do you, uh, do you need, uh, for your face—” He patted his pockets, looking for a handkerchief, finding only a handful of cords from knot-practice. “Aw,  _ shells.” _ Another pocket produced a linty wedge of cheese. N’ris blinked at it, then tentatively offered it to J’pei. “Um. You can’t really blow your nose on this, but do you want it?”

“Thank you, no,” J’pei got out, holding up one hand to decline the cheese. To his surprise, a small laugh escaped. N’ris pulled the cheese back, then laughed too. “I’m sure…” J’pei couldn’t make himself smile, but he had more control of his voice now, and  _ could _ sound confident. “With Nemorth here, everything will be fine.”

“Yeah, she’s  _ really _ big,” N’ris said, looking at the queen admiringly. Orpith squeaked, promptly circling around to sniff at her second egg. N’ris beamed at the sight, then bit his lip. He reached out, as though about to pat J’pei’s arm, but yanked his hand back when J’pei flinched. “Sorry. That we weren’t here.”

“It wouldn’t have…” J’pei took another deep, shaky breath. “Training is training. There’s no need to be sorry for that.”

“We don’t  _ know _ it wouldn’t’ve made a difference,” N’ris said, objecting to J’pei’s half-spoken dismissal. He planted his hands on his hips. “They were  _ total buttheads _ yesterday. We should’ve  _ known _ they’d be  _ worse _ buttheads  _ today, _ and somebody should’ve stayed with you.”

That didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t _ their  _ job to keep pushy bronzeriders away from J’pei.

“Anyway,” N’ris went on, politely ignoring J’pei’s confused silence. “C’gan forgot to give me orders like he gave you, so I can do whatever. Bring you stuff. Walk you places. Go talk to the Circle again. Let the Headwoman know you’re  _ recuperating _ and won’t be doing all that nonsense C’gan told you to do.” N’ris nodded firmly, then pointed to Surugath. “Why don’t you go sit with her? Orpith won’t mind you being close.”

Orpith chirped. Surugath crooned very quietly, tilting her head at the patch of sand between her front legs.

“That sounds…” J’pei smiled at N’ris. “Very restful. I’ll do that.”

~

Wings had a few different traditional configurations. Putting everyone in order of endurance was common, so it would be simpler for greens to swap in and out, not flying a full Fall (or Games round, these days). Nearly as common was alternating greens between the other colors, so their nimble reflexes could cover more air. Either way, Ch’joh flew at the tail end of the V.

The wingleader always took the front, setting the pace and direction. Ch’joh had wondered how they were supposed to do that  _ and _ snap out the position-related orders that supposedly saved lives. Then they’d gotten into training in the air, not just on the ground, and he got a whisper of everyone’s positions through his connection with Namith. The dragons themselves  _ felt _ everyone’s locations just as solidly as if they were looking at them.

_ Where _ everyone was flying wasn’t the same as  _ how _ they flew, though. Ch’joh asked Namith to stop weaving around (sometimes training routes were interesting, and sometimes you had to make your own interesting) and let him watch everyone for a bit.

_ Mianath’s tired, _ Namith said, as Ch’joh saw the dragons in front of them wobble badly over a patch of turbulent air. Except ancient blue Tagath of course, with his  _ decades _ of experience.  _ He won’t tell Tagath but his rider says he has to tell SOMEBODY. _ Blue Mianath’s shyness rivalled that of his rider Q’resh’s, which meant if Q’resh insisted he tell someone, and Mianath did, it meant he was  _ very _ tired.  _ Everyone’s tired, _ Namith said grumpily.  _ I’M tired. _

_ Tell Tagath that, tell him we all need a break, _ Ch’joh said, mumbling it under his breath as he thought it at her.

A moment later, at the head of the V, C’gan moved his arm in the signal for a position swap, and for everyone to maintain course during it. Tagath and L’mer’s blue Riheth both rose above the wing, and Om’riel’s green Reeth moved into Riheth’s place. With the tail end of the V now empty, C’gan settled into it to observe everyone with his own eyes, not just Tagath’s senses. And L’mer took the wingleader position.

_ Of course, _ Ch’joh thought glumly. C’gan wouldn’t send  _ Om'riel _ up to lead, despite wanting his spot to observe everyone from. L’mer wouldn’t even ever  _ be _ a permanent wingleader! Just a temporary one for bluewings, or the blue-green mixed wings, when someone bothered to form them in the Games. Not even brownriders R’shi and N’tsu would be  _ permanent _ wingleaders, destined for wingsecond jobs, though that, at least, meant they’d lead a  _ lot _ more often than L’mer ever would.

_ But no, the brownriders are still babies, so let’s send the oldest non-greenrider up instead! _ Ch’joh thought bitterly.  _ Let’s just ignore that me and Om’riel are both older than him!  _ Shards, at least J’pei wasn’t here to be ignored like that. Ch’joh turned and spat a thanks into the Wind for that small kindness.

_ Namith, darling, dearest, please point out every single problem anyone has to Tagath for the next ten minutes, _ Ch’joh said. He’d been training with these kids for a Turn, working alongside almost half of them even longer. They didn’t deserve to be worked to exhaustion just because the stupid fucking Weyrleader and stupid fucking Weyrlingmaster had their underdrawers all twisted into a bunch over getting fucking  _ surprised. _

Like hell would Ch’joh let their teacher ignore  _ any _ problems today.

Not even five minutes later Tagath relayed C’gan’s order to land, and up at the front L’mer gave the flight-signal for it.

“Long break through lunch,” C’gan said, once all the human weyrlings had bunched up in front of him, the dragons flopping down on the frosty ground. They’d flown far enough south to escape the snows, but not the cold. “Duty ballad review until then. Who wants to start us off?”

L’mer and Om'riel jumped into the opening verse of the “how to not be a jerk to non-riders” song Ch’joh could never remember the official name of. C’gan nodded approvingly, tapping out the beat on his thigh. For once he seemed content to let the weyrlings pick the ballads, and ignored small errors, or even big ones like Om'riel loudly getting verses out of order, everyone else following along to keep in synch.

They hadn’t gotten through all the teaching ballads by the time C’gan dismissed them for lunch, but they sure did hit over half. The Weyrlingmaster oversaw Everth and Onth’s next round of firestone, cajoling them to get a safe distance away from everyone else until they finished flaming. Then he sat down by Ch’joh, which was just plain weird.

“Don’t trust yourself to remember all the ballads?” Ch’joh asked instead of greeting his teacher. C’gan sighed, unpacking his own lunch. “Hoping we’ll jog your memory of whichever one you forgot?”

“I know it’s my fault, lad, ease up a little,” C’gan said, with far less bite than normal.

“Yeah, you’re doing a great job letting everyone know it’s your fault,” Ch’joh said sarcastically around a mouthful of dried fruit. So what if they’d all conspired to keep it from him? The man still should have remembered to feed them firestone back during the obnoxious mating flight lessons. “What with chastising J’pei and standing there like a lump while R’gul yells at us and letting F’lar lecture us about firestone instead of doing it yourself. Really feeling the responsibility.”

“Call the Weyrleader by his proper title,” C’gan said, but he grimaced at the reproach. “And the bronzerider volunteered.”

“Of course he did,” Ch’joh muttered. A ways away, out of earshot, the youngest weyrlings swapped bits of their lunches. Tiny bluerider T’kash yawned hugely in the middle of an exchange, covering his mouth with the hand holding a leftover breakfast pastry and accidentally dropping it. P’gyo scooped it up from the frosty grass, hastily wiping it off with a reassuring smile, and then fumbled it himself from shaking, exhausted hands. “Are you really going to let the Weyrleader punish the whole class with this extra training forever, or are you going to argue for your old curriculum back? Admit it was your mistake, not ours?”

“And how well do you think trainees listen to teachers who admit mistakes like that?” C’gan asked, nearly as sarcastic as Ch’joh. “Every single lesson turns into an argument.”

“You just admitted it to me.”

“Eh.” C’gan shrugged. “You never listened to me in the first place.”

~

N’ris, eventually assured by the dragons that he didn’t need to bodyguard J’pei, ran all over Benden Weyr talking to older greenriders and his friends in the Lower Caverns. L’deni stopped by on his way to patrol, saw the sling, cursed for five minutes straight, and ended with, “Hell of a thing you’ve all done. Tell Surugath we’re proud of her, you got it?”

A little before lunch N’ris popped back in, asking if J’pei was coming to the dining cavern.

“No, I—”

“I’ll bring you lunch, then!”

A good quarter hour later N’ris returned with a basket over one arm, a tray tucked under the other, and Headwoman Manora by his side. J’pei walked over warily to meet them at the stands. N’ris gestured to J’pei’s sling, an unspoken “I  _ told _ you!” written clearly on his face.

“Mm,” was all Manora said. She looked slowly over at the double clutch (Orpith’s eggs laid so close to Surugath’s, it was impossible to say where one ended and the other began), at the distant tunnel leading to the Weyrwoman’s quarters, and back at J’pei.

His arm twinged. It reminded him of the pain after his first time in the sands, between applications of numbweed as the gashes healed. He wanted to do the same thing he’d done then, hide in the senior weyrfolk’s cavern and burrow against his grandfather’s side. He couldn’t do that now. B’sur had passed long ago.

Manora had been Headwoman even longer. J’pei stared back at her now, used to her scrutiny. He barely remembered when she took over. Before he ever Stood, he knew, but was it before or after Reiko and Kenta left? She’d been assisting the previous Headwoman so long, the exact day of change was long lost.

N’ris had had fewer Turns doing chores in the Lower Caverns under Manora's scrutiny and loudly unpacked the basket to break the silence. He fussed arranging things on the tray, much like Ch’joh did some days, though his patterns were more “visually pleasing balance” and less “most efficient arrangement of improvised weapons”.

“C’gan told me to expect all the brooding greens to report in for tasks like those grounded by heat weeks do,” Manora said eventually. J’pei nodded cautiously. N’ris frowned at this news that he was still expected to do chores without a direct order from C’gan. “That I have authority until normal training resumes. He didn’t mention any injuries—”

“I  _ told _ you,” N’ris finally exclaimed aloud. “That was after he left, from—”

Manora held up a hand. N’ris bit his tongue, and then stuck it out further, crossing his arms.

“He knows as well as I do that an injured rider takes precedence over everything but an injured dragon,” Manora went on. “I’ll send Olivia to you after lunch. Until she clears you, N’ris’s only job is helping you.” She smiled ever so slightly at N’ris as he beamed proudly. “A task I see he has assigned himself. I’ll trust you to choose your tasks as well, once you’re healed.”

“Thank you,” J’pei said. He wondered what he would have done with such freedom to choose as a weyrbrat.  _ Help Sanra with child-minding and C’gan’s Weyrsinginger duties, _ he realized before even finishing the question. Well. Maybe if Surugath and Orpith didn’t mind, he could talk Sanra into bringing her gitar and his hand-drums into the Hatching Ground for lessons.

“Don’t let everyone else use this as an excuse to get out of their chores, mind you,” Manora said, suddenly stern. “You don’t need a dozen pairs of feet.”

J’pei nodded again. N’ris waited until she left to stick his tongue out again. “Pff! Like anyone  _ really _ leaves off the chores that  _ need _ to get done. If all the girls wanna ditch stitching firestone sacks when the Games are months away, why  _ shouldn’t _ they?”

“Good question,” J’pei said, and let himself relax enough to sit down and eat.

~

The weyrling class flew in a zig-zag pattern back to the Weyr over the course of the whole afternoon and early evening. C’gan let them rest on cliff edges frequently, so the dragons wouldn’t need to work to take off. Ch’joh guessed from his pinched lips and deep sighs at each stop that he’d have let them all fly straight home hours ago if this were a normal day.

After letting Ch’joh down, Namith flew back to the barracks, grumbling sleepily in his head that when they were old enough for their own weyr, it had better be warmer than all those frosty ledges today.

K’tis slid down Everth’s side before she even landed, bolting for the Hatching Ground, anxious to see his twin. Ch’joh wanted to bolt there too, but somebody had to keep an eye on things in the dining cavern. His snarling presence yesterday had kept the rude, sexist jokes to distant whispers, instead of direct insults to their faces.

Thankfully L’deni walked over, waving to him. “Ledbuth said you were back! Go on, K’sawa and me’ll sit with your clutchmates.”

“Keep everyone from calling them ‘new mothers’?” Ch’joh asked.

“Yeah, until the surprise wears off and that joke stops being funny.” He grimaced, and ran a hand down his face with a sigh. “Least we can do, after not seeing this morning coming. Sorry.”

“What?”

L’deni didn’t answer, just waving over his shoulder while walking off towards the dining cavern. Ch’joh ran for the Hatching Ground, worried. He passed by C’gan wilting under Manora’s stern glare, Esme and Gullers with their heads pressed together, and at the entrance, N’ris and K’tis talking rapidly in Telgar sign. His eyes went to Surugath and the clutch first, noting Orpith snoozing in front of the eggs, and Nemorth resting a wing over them all. Then he caught sight of J’pei sitting quietly at the bottom of the stands, eating dinner single-handed because his other arm was in a sling, and all his blood went cold.

_ It could be an accident, _ part of Ch’joh’s brain said desperately, as his momentum carried him over.  _ It doesn’t HAVE to mean Benden is like everywhere else. _ Nevermind that he already knew they were in a hundred ways by now.

J’pei looked up when Ch’joh stumbled to halt at his feet. Glanced down at his shoulder, sighed, and spoke before Ch’joh could ask. “Dislocated. Olivia told me what to watch for, to keep from spraining it.” He waved his hand sticking out of the sling. “Everything’s fine.”

“Nothing is  _ ever _ fine,” Ch’joh said. J’pei cracked a smile, but it didn’t last. “How…?”

“The Weyrleader said the eggs had to be examined,” J’pei said tightly. “He didn’t send P’rid again. He came himself. With nine other bronzeriders.”

It was amazing how fast chilled blood could turn boiling hot. “I’m going to  _ kill—” _

“Don’t,” J’pei said quietly. “Please.”

“This wasn’t supposed to  _ happen _ here,” Ch’joh said. He forced himself to unclench his fists. Without a fight to run off too, the rage pulsed inside him, shaking his legs, watering his eyes. “The Weyr’s supposed to be  _ different. _ You…” He covered his eyes with one hand, unable to bear the sight of J’pei sitting there, looking not just sad, but defeated. “You weren't supposed to get  _ hurt.” _

Ch’joh heard the rustle of fabric and shifting sand that meant J’pei was standing up. He dropped his hand, shaking his head rapidly, trying to focus. “We have to get out of here,” Ch’joh said. J’pei sighed. “We do, we have to, it’s not  _ safe. _ We can—” Ch’joh shoved his hands into his hair, screwing his eyes shut. “We’ll pack up the eggs, find somewhere else. They’ll stay warm if we bundle them in enough furs, right?”

“There’s nowhere else to go,” J’pei said, in the awful tone of someone who’d thought things through from every angle. “I’m sorry. I…” He looked at Ch’joh with a nauseating mix of resignation and apology. “Anywhere  _ we _ could hide, the eggs would be unsafe.”

“It’s not safe  _ here!” _

“I’m sorry,” J’pei said again. He hunched, wrapping his arms around his stomach instead of holding them like usual, looking down at the sand. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just. It wouldn’t have been dislocated if...they didn’t  _ mean _ to, they just...just had to keep me out of the way—”

“Don’t you  _ dare,” _ Ch’joh snarled, watering eyes blurring everything. “Don’t you  _ dare _ apologize for  _ them. _ They  _ hurt _ you.”

“Not on purpose,” J’pei whispered.

_ “Bullshit!” _

“We’ve got Nemorth now.” J’pei hunched more, and Ch’joh felt like a  _ complete asshole, _ but he didn’t know how to calm down, how to reassure. “It won’t happen again.”

“It shouldn’t have happened at all!” Ch’joh took a step back, trying to make himself take deep breaths, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that!” Ch’joh gave up on calm and lunged forward, wrapping his arms around J’pei. After a startled jerk, J’pei wrapped his good arm around Ch’joh too. “None of this is your fault,” Ch’joh said fiercely. “You hear me? It’s not your fucking fault!”

J’pei buried his face against Ch’joh’s shoulder. Ch’joh ought to come up with more things to say, or rub his back soothingly, but all he could manage was digging his fingers into J’pei’s jacket and clinging as hard as he could. Eventually  _ J’pei _ started stroking  _ Ch’joh’s _ back, which made him groan and drop his head onto J’pei’s good shoulder.

“For fuck’s sake,” Ch’joh said. “I ought to be comforting you, not…”

“Mm,” J’pei said. That single hum sounded so much happier than anything from a few minutes ago that Ch’joh nearly laughed. Trust J’pei to feel better by comforting someone else. “I’ve had all day. You’ve only just seen.”

“That’s stupid,” Ch’joh mumbled, not bothering to lift his head. “Everything about this is stupid.”

“Can’t argue that,” J’pei said. Now Ch’joh  _ did _ laugh. Then the sound of feet on sand behind them made him let go and spin around, instinctively drawing his belt-knife. Oh. It was C’gan. Ch’joh resheathed the knife, but kept his hand on the hilt.

“Dislocated, huh?” C’gan said, with a light tone and a worried face. J’pei probably nodded, but Ch’joh didn’t see, having put himself firmly in front of him. “Could be worse. I’ve dislocated mine a few times.” The worried expression didn’t go away. “I’d like a word.”

“Okay,” J’pei said warily.

“A word with  _ you.” _

Like hell was Ch’joh leaving J’pei alone with  _ anyone. _ He shifted his feet into a firmer stance on the sand.

“There’s nothing you need to say to me that Ch’joh doesn’t need to hear too,” J’pei said. One of those double-meaning things he said sometimes, that made people in charge think he was being obedient or honest or respectful.  _ No, I didn’t SEE where Omoriel went. I’m sure you’ll do what you think is best. Do you need help with that? _

“Hell, he’s already heard,” C’gan muttered, much to Ch’joh’s surprised. “I’m sorry I forgot the firestone before you all rose. That was my fault.”

Fucking finally.

“...I can’t say I’m sorry,” J’pei said. Good. C’gan glanced over at the clutch, nodded in an understanding way. Ch’joh expected to hear a “thank you” as well, a polite acknowledgement of the fault C’gan had just admitted to. Instead there was only a heavy, expectant silence, until C’gan grew uncomfortable and left.

Ch’joh turned back to J’pei, startled by the hints of anger in his face, a stark difference from just a few minutes ago. “Are you...okay?”

“What if they hadn’t been pregnant?” J’pei asked, looking at him. “What if all those changes we noticed had just meant they were sick, and he didn’t notice? It wasn’t like it matched any of the health ballads,  _ we _ didn’t know. And then he just  _ stood _ there yesterday!”

“I told him off for that too,” Ch’joh said. “The standing there. I didn’t think of the what-ifs.”

“He doesn’t need to tell  _ me _ it’s his fault,” J’pei snapped. He pressed his fingers against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. “He needs to tell the Weyrleader, and he needs to have done it  _ yesterday.” _

“Maybe he did,” Ch’joh suggested. J’pei cracked his eyes open. “Maybe your dad just didn’t care. Remember when he got mad at Esme for not snitching on you reading archives? I bet he just wants to be mad at as many people as possible over this.”

“Shards, you’re right,” J’pei said, hand on his temples drawing down his face.

“Oh, I could be wrong,” Ch’joh said, determined not to give their teacher unearned credit. “Maybe he didn’t even admit it to himself until today! But, you know, who cares.” He stepped close to J’pei’s side and gestured towards the double clutch, and the three dragons brooding over it. He’d finally found the right words. “We won! They were so confident in their tradition that greens don’t lay, they forgot they need to do stuff to  _ keep _ that tradition. And we get this.”

“Yeah…” J’pei smiled, that proud, unguarded one he got whenever Surugath did something amazing. “We get this.”


	20. Heated Weeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAT 2495 Winter, Turn’s End.

The worst thing about brooding, J’pei and Surugath quickly realized, was how incredibly  _ boring _ it was. As much as adult dragons lazed about to conserve energy, young ones like Surugath still spent most of their waking hours training or playing.

It didn’t take more than a couple days for the dragons to get unbearably fidgety, no matter how protective of their shared clutch they were. Orpith and Surugath began taking turns running around the Bowl, scaling its heights and soaring down again, one of them always staying with Nemorth and the eggs. There were sixteen now, Orpith laying just over half as many as Surugath.

Every other day or so Nemorth rumbled coaxingly, and the two greens gently rotated the eggs, changing up which sides directly touched the hot sands, which soaked in morning or afternoon sun.

J’pei and N’ris started eating lunch in the Hatching Ground, Manora mentioning with a wry almost-smile that riders of brooding dragons  _ traditionally _ had meal-delivery privileges. They still ate breakfast and dinner with the rest of the weyrlings (exhausted and irritable from the extended training), which meant overhearing other riders’ snide comments about the greens being negligent mothers who’d rather roll through snow-drifts than brood over their clutch.

“And how are  _ your _ daughters doing lately?” J’pei asked a grey-haired bluerider who made the mistake of glancing over to see how his comment landed. The man froze, focus going inward for a moment, instinctually asking his dragon for answers that weren’t coming. “Want me to tell them ‘hello’ for you, since you’re so busy?”

“Wasn’t that R’shi’s grandad?” Ch’joh asked quietly, glaring at the bluerider’s retreating back

“Mm-hm.” J’pei was certain the man didn’t remember which of his daughters had borne the youngest brownrider. “How was training today?”

J’pei had already asked the group how the day went, listening to complaints about the weather and the flight patterns, excited retellings of a dive Reeth did just because she could, speculation on what the next day might bring. He still wanted to hear it all again from Ch’joh, hear his sarcastic commentary, frustrated concerns, and jubilant pride.

That was the other thing about brooding; it shouldn’t have been lonely, not with an entire Weyr full of people, not before even a  _ sevenday _ had passed, but it was. And everything he did to chase away the loneliness just drove into his head who he was missing. 

J’pei spent his mornings in the retired weyrfolks’ cavern, and he missed Ch’joh. He filled up his afternoons helping Sanra herd children, and he missed Ch’joh. He talked quietly and briefly with grounded greenriders between their assigned tasks, accepting words of support, and he missed Ch’joh. He stood just outside the Hatching Ground with N’ris each evening, peering into the darkness for the shadows of dragons against the winter sky, and Namith’s profile cresting the edge of the caldera filled him with such relief and happiness it hurt.

It scared him spitless.

Missing his sisters hadn’t scared him, even if he was miserable. He was used to missing people because something changed forever. The fever took weyrbrats’ hearing and the adults sent them away. His mother and brothers left for Craft Halls. B’sur died. Candidates aged out. Junpei Impressed and now he wasn’t Junpei anymore and all his duties differed from his sisters’. If Surugath and Ch’joh hadn’t made the effort for him J’pei would have gone right on missing his sisters; he didn't know how to hold on.

He’d never had any practice holding on.

And missing people was one thing. Wanting them  _ back? _ How selfish to want time with people when you could both be doing things for the Weyr, apart. How selfish to wish you could fly out to Boll or Fort and the Craft Halls there anytime, to see people who’d turned their backs on the Weyr. How selfish, to want things that weren’t dragons (or to want even that, if you were a girl).

Before Weyrleader F’lon died and the bronze council banned everyone too young to work in the Lower Caverns from visiting Gathers, Reiko would take her sons with her. She was always busy though, bartering for the Weyr, looking after Esme for Luceel. So Kenta looked after Junpei. J’pei still remembered holding his brother’s hand, wandering from stall to stall, getting scooped up to admire the ones full of intricately woven cloths.

“What do you think, Junpei?” Kenta would ask, pointing to different patterns. “Should I try to knit that? Or weave it all tiny?” The green and blueriders had taught Kenta all their fiber crafts, indulging the weyrbrat who rummaged through every box of tithed wool and tried to spin cattails. He spent his rest days messing with a hand loom.

Everyone said it was a pity that Rally aged out. That two clutches rejected him. That Nemorth didn’t rise more often. They didn't like to remember how excited he’d been to learn Harping. And they treated Reiko like some kind of traitor, abandoning the Weyr, taking her eldest son, her dragonrider blood, and any future children she might have halfway across the world.

None of the adults talked about Kenta himself. About him leaving before aging out, about him  _ wanting _ a life without a dragon. Not even to say it was wrong. Like they were scared it would give the other candidates heretical ideas.

_ Can I meet them? _ Surugath asked, and all of a sudden  _ forever _ turned on its head. J’pei stopped oiling her elbow (food might not be allowed near the eggs, but the lake was cold and the barracks far away and she  _ itched, _ so here they were) to look at her. She blinked at him.  _ You are thinking about them a lot. _

The entire Western Claw was off limits outside of  _ between _ practice. They’d all be journeymen or masters by now, gone from their Halls. But...but the Harpers and Weavers tracked where they sent everyone.

J’pei looked at the eggs, clustered together on the hot sand, circled by Nemorth and Orpith. He resisted the urge to touch his shoulder, well enough to gently oil a dragon, not well enough to haul himself up a riding strap.

Off limits.

So what?

“Yes.” J’pei kissed Surugath’s snout. “We’ll hatch your family and go find mine.”

_ Good. _

~

_ Aldamth says his rider wants to talk to you, _ Namith said, when Ch’joh was leaving the dining hall with his clutchmates after dinner. He looked up, and saw D’nis’s wing spiraling down, back from patrol. Or maybe Games training. Ch’joh didn’t keep track of D’nis’s schedule anymore.  _ About me and Aldamth. _

“Ah,” Ch’joh said. He’d been expecting this. He just wasn’t sure if he should be nervous or not. He  _ had _ kept a pretty damn big secret from D’nis, involving the man’s own dragon no less. On the other hand, D’nis was even-keeled, and it wasn’t like knowing would have made much difference.  _ You mind flying me up to his weyr, princess? _ Ch’joh asked Namith.

_ Yes, _ Namith said sulkily, and projected how tired she was at him. Fair enough.  _ Make Aldamth do it. _

“What’s wrong?” J’pei asked, noticing that Ch’joh had stopped walking.

“Nothing,” Ch’joh said. His mouth twisted to the side in a wry smile. “Just an awkward conversation that I don't want to have in front of the entire dining cavern  _ or _ out in the cold.” He waved one hand. “I’ll catch up to you.”

J’pei looked up too, made a quiet noise of understanding, and kept walking. Ch’joh waited where he was, and shortly Aldamth landed in front of him. D’nis helped him climb up.

“So,” D’nis said, when they’d both dismounted in his weyr.

“So,” Ch’joh echoed. He walked from the landing ledge to the first cavern of the weyr where Aldamth could get out of the weather, and then into the much more comfortable part where D’nis lived. He could sit on the bed, or at D’nis’s workbench, or on the chairs and cushions D'nis kept for entertaining guests. All familiar, all decently comfortable, but Ch’joh was too nervous to sit. He didn’t know what D’nis wanted from this conversation. So he leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets instead. “What’s up?”

D’nis sighed and leaned against the wall next to him, crossing his arms. “My dragon is going to be a dad. Pretty big life change.”

“Not really,” Ch’joh said lightly. “I mean, you can’t really call Hath a dad or Nemorth a mom. Father and mother, sure, but…” He trailed off, seeing D’nis raising his eyebrows. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s a big deal.”

“Aldamth doesn’t think it is,” D’nis said. “He’s interested in what’s going to happen, and knows he’s involved, but it’s not a big deal to him at all. Dragons rise to mate, and sometimes, very rarely in his experience, there’s a clutch a few months later. He doesn’t seem to understand that firestone has anything to do with it.”

“Oh,” Ch’joh said.

D’nis sighed. “When did you figure it out?” Because of course D’nis knew that the “we’re as surprised as you are!” line the green weyrlings were feeding everyone was a load of bullshit.

“A month after Namith rose,” Ch’joh admitted.

“Thank the First Egg,” D’nis said. Ch’joh turned his head to look at him, frowning. D’nis closed his eyes for a moment and ran a hand down his face. “I figured you kept it secret from me because that’s how secrets work, the fewer people who know them the better, but I wondered…with Surugath and Orpith rising first, I mean…”

“No,” Ch’joh said, realizing what D’nis was saying. “No, we didn’t know that soon, not after the first two, they were only a month in when Namith rose, they hadn’t changed that much color, I swear we didn’t know until later, D’nis I  _ swear _ I wouldn’t do that to you, to Aldamth—”

_ “To _ us?” D’nis said, frowning slightly, interrupting Ch’joh, which he rarely ever did. “Ch’joh, it’s not like we didn’t learn the exact same teaching ballads as you. I should have thought of the firestone.”

“Yeah, I mean, yeah, you should have,” Ch’joh said. “Fuck, you don’t know how fucking good it is to hear someone admit we’re not the only idiots responsible for this mess.”

D’nis laughed, but still looked a little worried. “I wasn’t sure...well, if you’d known after Surugath, but before Namith, if you didn’t trust me to keep quiet. Or if you were waiting for  _ me _ to mention the firestone. That maybe you are annoyed with me for forgetting.”

“No,” Ch’joh said. “Honestly, when have I ever  _ waited _ for you to say something?” D’nis nodded an acknowledgement of that, smiling. “But I mean it about telling you," Ch’joh went on. This was important. “If we’d figured out about Surugath and Orpith before Namith rose, I would’ve talked to you, and Aldamth. I wouldn’t take your choices away, or his.”

“Oh,” D’nis said, no longer laughing at all. “...thank you.” He ran a hand down his face again. “How’re you doing? With that?”

“With choices?” Ch’joh asked bitterly. “It’s out of my hands, isn’t it? We’re lucky they’re waiting until after she lays.”

“Damn stupid of them,” D’nis said. “If something happened to Nemorth, and every green in the Weyr had already chewed firestone…”

“Yeah, well, no one ever said the people in charge were  _ smart,” _ Ch’joh said sarcastically. Arrogant and spiteful, that’s what they were. Shit. “Don’t tell, okay?” Ch’joh moved away from the wall to look at D’nis full on. “That we knew as long as we did. Don’t tell anyone. The bastards wrenched J’pei’s arm out of its fucking socket over this, I don't want to find out what they’d do if they knew we fooled them.”

“I won’t,” D’nis promised. He sighed. “I’m sorry about that. What they did to him.”

“Could you have done anything?” Ch’joh asked, curious. He leaned against the wall again.

“...a few sevendays ago I would have said no,” D’nis said slowly. “A bluerider stop the bronzes from running roughshod over a green? That doesn’t happen. It’s not even close to stepping in against a brownrider. But a few sevendays ago I knew greens clutching doesn’t happen either.” He was silent for a long moment. “I can’t think what I would have done.”

“Probably something a lot less stupid than whatever I’d’ve done,” Ch’joh muttered, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling of the weyr.

“Stupid? No.” D’nis shook his head. “Impulsive? Yes. Heartfelt? Definitely.”

“Violent and useless,” Ch’joh muttered. “I’m good, but I’m not two against ten good.”

“You shouldn’t need to be,” D’nis said softly. “I’m sorry for that, too.”

“...thanks.”

~

“Hey,” M’kel said. He shielded his eyes from the bright winter sun, peering up at J’pei from the base of the stands. “Is this a good time to talk?”

“If you help keep watch,” J’pei said. He sat halfway up the stands right by the main entrance, where he could see anyone coming into Hatching Ground. Surugath was across the Bowl eating. Even with Nemorth, Orpith, and a dozen retired dragons draped around the hot sands, she still wanted J’pei watching her eggs. That she still trusted  _ him _ the most, after the incident with the bronzes, in equal parts terrified and comforted him. Surugath trusted him. Surugath would  _ always _ trust him.

“Sure,” M’kel said amiably, climbing up to sit by him. He surveyed the scene, not needing to shield his eyes any more from this angle, and whistled. “That really is a sight, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“The Aunties told us how long you really knew, yesterday,” M’kel said after a minute, rubbing the back of his head. J’pei tensed. “You know, now that all our wingleaders are done freaking out and philosophizing about how in the world this could have happened.”

“If they don’t know how it could have happened,” J’pei said, deliberately deadpan. “I think C’gan’s got some ballads they could listen to.”

M’kel snorted. “Doesn’t he just!” He shook his head. “The Aunties told us they cautioned you about keeping it secret, even from us, and  _ why _ they did, and while I wish I had known, I understand why you followed that advice.”

“I...wasn’t sure if it was the right choice,” J’pei admitted cautiously. If M’kel was going to lecture him, he’d rather get it over with. “But so many of the green secrets  _ stay _ secret because nobody else is paying attention, and…”

“And you’d just had a great big taste of what happens when the bastards  _ do _ pay attention,” M’kel said. “Especially to hide colors and mating cycles and all that.”

J’pei nodded. He kept his eyes roaming; across the sands, the clutch, the entrances. M’kel’s voice was wry, understanding, sympathetic, nothing J’pei expected. He didn’t think he could handle whatever expression went with that voice.

“I don’t know if it was the right choice either,” M’kel said. J’pei swallowed. “But I  _ do _ know you kids have done good. Done  _ damn _ good.”

_ “Really?” _ J’pei asked in shocked relief, unable to stop himself, and horribly aware of how much he’d wanted to be told that for so long.

“Really,” M’kel said firmly. “Something nobody was watching for happened to your dragons, and you went to the experts. You knew the Weyrleader would take it badly, and kept it secret, without doing anything that’d hurt the dragons, like restricting diet or making them go  _ between. _ And here they are, healthy as herdbeasts and smugger than felines in cream.”

“Of course we didn’t stop them feeding or make them go  _ between,” _ J’pei said, confused. “That’s the kind of thing we worried the Weyrleader would make us do.”

M’kel sighed— or maybe laughed, it was hard to tell —and shook his head. “Lad, if all you’d cared about was staying out of trouble, you could have gotten it into your heads to chew firestone on your own, and do all those things, trying to stop it yourselves.”

J’pei looked at him in horror. “But that could’ve hurt them—”

_ “Exactly,” _ M’kel said. “That’s what I’m saying. You all took care of your dragons as best you could. We’re damn proud of you all. And don’t think I didn’t hear about Surugath herself standing up to Hath over the sharding firestone.”

“Surugath’s amazing,” J’pei said, looking away again, feeling himself flush. The Circle thought they’d done well? The Circle was  _ proud _ of them? 

“She is,” M’kel said. “And so’re you.” From the corner of his eye, J’pei saw M’kel grin. “The whole thing’s got the making of a Clever Reiko story, doesn’t it?”

J’pei’s breath caught in his chest. The Hatching Ground went blurry, watery. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that, to hear he was like his mother, from an older rider who liked and approved of her. M’kel politely said nothing for a minute, giving J’pei time to compose himself.

“Thank you,” J’pei said.

“B’sur would be proud of you,” M’kel said, which made J’pei tear up all over again.

Surugath had returned from her meal and settled down around her clutch, chirping to Orpith, before the older rider spoke again.

“You know there’s a lot of secrets you’re not in on yet,” M’kel said. No note of question in his voice, but J’pei nodded anyway. “Mostly it’s just songs and stories we haven’t gotten to. And you won’t hear the Countdown until you make it to the Spring Festival.” He waved a hand dismissively. “But there is a big one we usually wait a few Turns on, and the Circle’s decided to let  _ you _ in on it now, and trust your judgement about telling the others.”

“Me?” J’pei asked. “Ch’joh’s the one collecting stories.”

“Well…” M’kel said, toothing a thumb thoughtfully. “It’s not stories. It’s plans.”

“Plans,” J’pei echoed.

“In case Thread doesn’t come,” M’kel said. “After we reach the end of the Countdown. Which we had to re-number in Weyrleader J’ash’s time when we figured out it was a second Long Interval.”

“I’ve talked to Ch’joh about plans for that,” J’pei said.

“Yeah?” M’kel turned towards him, grinning. “Tell me.”

J’pei outlined his idea for forming a new Craft Hall, dragonriders acting as messengers and couriers, and Ch’joh’s suggestion of bartering directly with the smallholders instead of their Lords. “And dragonriders who wanted to could learn other crafts,” J’pei ended, having watched M’kel’s grin turn into a happily surprised smile as he talked. “But we’d want to keep living in the Weyrs, since they’re big enough for dragons, and most rooms at Craft Halls are a bit small.”

M’kel laughed. “That’s an understatement.” He shook his head. “There you kids go being clever again. The great, big, decades, maybe centuries in the making plan, has just been that last bit about us all becoming crafters. We didn’t think of formalizing the couriering like that, even with casual versions cropping up in old tales.” He made to flick his finger against J’pei’s forehead, but drew his hand back when J’pei dodged. “You need to rethink that living situation, though.”

“The Weyrs?” J’pei asked, puzzled.

“Too findable,” M’kel said. “It’s a noble idea to get all dragonfolk united in moving forward, but…” He shrugged, turning away to look back out over the sands. “You know how some people are about tradition. Craft Halls promote by merit, not dragon color.” His voice lost most of its merriment. “The bronzes won’t handle losing authority well.”

J’pei said nothing, only lightly touched his healing shoulder.

“They’ll come around in a few decades without Thread,” M’kel said. “Or a few generations. In the meantime…” He sighed deeply. “We’ll need dragonhomes they can’t find. And whether that’s big central spots like this, or little scattered dens, which we’ve never gotten a consensus on, our best bet is the Southern Continent.”

“Oh,” J’pei said. He’d never thought of that, but it felt so obvious. Couriers or Crafters, they’d all be going  _ between _ to get around anyway. Why bother living on the Northern Continent at all?

“It’s all moot if Thread does come back,” M’kel said. He stood up, stretching. “Which is why we haven’t done it yet. Just a couple Turns of clear skies after it’s due, though, and we’re gone like  _ that!” _ He snapped his fingers, and started walking back down to the bottom of the stands.

“M’kel?” J’pei called, when the older rider reached the sand. M’kel turned around to look up at him. “Can the Circle tell the others about those plans? It’ll feel more real than if I’m just relaying it.” M’kel nodded. “And...are the blues in on it too?”

“Oh, for Turns,” M’kel said. “But since they weren’t in on  _ your _ secret, it’s up to their own mentors to decide when they learn.”

“And…” J’pei let out a breath. “The browns?”

M’kel shook his head. “Can’t risk it.”

“They might be less obsessed with being wingseconds if they knew there was an out,” J’pei said.

“It’s a nice thought,” M’kel said. He sighed. “And I’m sure they’ll join us one at a time once we establish ourselves, but as a group? No. Too risky.”

J’pei nodded, a little sad, but not surprised. N’tsu and R’shi were nice kids, and P’trikor would jump at the chance to try something new, but he couldn't imagine any of the others giving up their authority, even if it meant finally being on equal footing with the bronzeriders.

~

One of the perks of being Weyrleader, Esme once explained to Ch’joh, was living in a weyr just as accessible as any goldrider’s, near the Council Room. The wingleaders had first choice (and their wingseconds second choice, ha ha) of any weyr with a weyrshaft connected to the kitchens, and could holler down it at any time for food and drink. Theoretically they could holler for more sweetsand or fresh linens or anything else light enough to haul up with the pulley, but some ancient Headwoman put the kibosh on anything inedible when someone sent running to fetch sweetsand tripped straight into someone else carrying the roast for a feast.

Some weyrs had long looping tunnels connecting them to the Lower Caverns; Guller said they were half good luck with lava tunnels, and half carved out by long-lost tools. Fort Weyr, rumor said, connected  _ every _ weyr to back access tunnels. During a Pass Benden’s tunnels would fill with glowbaskets as Lower Caverns workers trudged up and down them with laundry, numbweed, oils, meals, repair work, and more. The weyrs with connected tunnels would be reserved like the ones with weyrshafts. During an Interval nobody but the Weyrleader and golds were considered busy enough to warrant that kind of help.

“Look how puzzled he is,” Esme said maliciously one morning, indicating R’gul sitting with half of the other bronzes and several brownriders, fitting in a meeting during breakfast instead of in the Council Room. The Weyrleader frowned at each spoonful of hot oats, and each sip of klah. “He’s eating better now with us degenerates than he has in two sevendays.”

“I thought the Headwoman always assembled the leadership’s trays from the first and best of each meal,” Ch’joh said, raising his eyebrows at her. “Starving the Weyrwoman aside, that is,” he added dryly. J’pei shuddered slightly next to him. Whoops.

“Usually, yeah,” Esme said. “We got orders after, uh…” She glanced at J’pei’s shoulder, finally free of the sling but still treated gingerly. “Well, orders that obviously the Weyrleader would want to make sure the whole Weyr was looked after, so we ought to set aside burnt bits, klah dregs, and anything that got under or over cooked for him. I’ve been including some rocks. You know, for roughage.”

Ch’joh snickered. Esme grinned. She tossed a piece of fruit from hand to hand and added, “She told him he had to start carting his own laundry again like everyone else, because of, what was it...needing to reassign some of the girls to other chores because us older ones are doing more with our specialty tracks.” Her grin grew wider. “Of course, just last week she sent the Weyrwoman a fresh pot of hair oil when Felena said it was looking low, instead of waiting for her to ask. And complimented Nemorth’s diligence in front of him.”

“That’s fantastic,” Ch’joh said, and pocketed his own fruit for the long day ahead.

The fight over candidates was going much more loudly than the Headwoman’s campaign of disapproval. The older greens filled the weyrlings in whenever they had a moment. R’gul refused to bring outside candidates in until after Turn’s End, when the second double-clutch was laid. He insisted that would both leave them at least a sevenday before the first Hatching, and give them a solid number of total eggs and thus candidates needed.

“But what if they hatch early?” J’pei asked when they heard.

“Then we really  _ do _ get the chance to shove all the girls onto the sands,” Ch’joh said. Even with the rejected candidates from Nemorth’s last clutch and the handful of boys who’d aged in, there weren’t enough for a safety margin. Not for the double clutch of sixteen, and definitely not enough if Namith and Reeth laid similarly.

K’ban and M’ridin supported the idea of girl candidates; every other bronzerider just kept repeating “girls don’t ride fighting dragons” or worse, laughing. Zalinna pointedly planted her wheelchair out in the dining cavern during most meals, hooking passing b-riders with Q’cheten’s cane to talk to them. The greens all already knew about her, of course. Ch’joh suspected some of the blues did too, especially the older ones. They certainly seemed willing to listen.

Two days before Turn’s End, C’gan finally cornered R’gul, thanked him for his “training advice”, reported that they were going back to the old curriculum now, and strode off before R’gul could respond. The wily old bastard managed to do it when the Weyrleader was busy arguing about candidates with C’vrel and M’ridin too, ensuring he was distracted. C’gan didn’t bother telling the weyrlings until they finished lunch out on some remote spit of mountain high above the Bitra plains.

Spiraling back into the Bowl with the sun still in the sky felt so  _ normal _ that when Ch’joh glanced at the other arm of the wing, he expected to see Surugath.

_ She’s napping, _ Namith informed him primly. Ch’joh leaned forward to scratch her head-knobs with his gloved hand.  _ Orpith’s awake, though, _ Namith said, pleased by the scratching.  _ She says N’ris says J’pei is with Sanra. _ Ch’joh hadn’t even asked.  _ You didn’t ask, I did. J’pei always waits for us when he doesn’t fly. He isn’t waiting. I wanted to know. _

“I wanted to know too,” Ch’joh reassured her, making an effort not to laugh at her whiny tone. “If he’s with Sanra, he’s helping her watch little kids. They’re like eggs, but noisier.” That was probably a better way to describe babies than little kids, since baby weyrbrats spent their time carried around in slings, brooded over, not in tiny mobs that demanded stories and snacks. "They're like hatchlings."

_ I know what they are,  _ Namith said, thinking of the younger human weyrlings. Ch'joh sent back an image of all of them half as tall and twice as noisy.

J’pei was indeed in the teaching cavern. Ch’joh leaned against the arch of the entryway for a few minutes, watching J’pei tap out a rhythm on hand-drums while Sanra led a mathematics song. Multiplication tables; Ch’joh remembered the traveling harper singing it, tapping rhythm on their cook pots because someone had broken his drums and gitar.

Then some of the kids noticed him lurking and hurled themselves at his legs, grabbing his hands and demanding he join in the next song.

“Is it division?” Ch’joh asked, letting the kids drag him to a spot next to J’pei, grinning back at J’pei’s surprised smile. “I’m very divisive.”

“We were just about to switch to reading and writing, actually,” Sanra told him. “A call and answer for spelling before practicing letters at the sand table.”

“Oh,” Ch’joh said. None of the traveling harpers had bothered with that; they’d done math, parts of the Charter, and history disguised as entertainment. Before coming to the Weyr, he could count the people he knew could read and write on one hand. Maybe two hands. The Traders were cagey about that kind of thing.

Fortunately Sanra already knew what that “oh” meant, and handed him a stick with bells on it to gently shake instead of making him sing. When the mob of children finished their song and crowded around the sand table with blocky, easy to hold styluses, he loomed from one side and made impressed noises. He might not have much experience with kids, but after a Turn of weyrling training he knew how to sound encouraging.

Eventually more women arrived to help Sanra herd the kids to the dining cavern, not that they needed much prompting. It was a good hour before most of the Weyr ate. Ch’joh and J’pei sauntered behind the swarm.

“Has it ever occurred to you to take it easy?” Ch’joh asked, gesturing ahead of them.

J’pei snorted. “Like you’re any better at keeping still.”

Okay, fair enough. Ch’joh stretched, shaking out some of the knots from training and sitting on the floor. Shards, he hadn’t even changed out of his riding leathers yet.

“If Thread’s not coming,” J’pei said very, very quietly into the dimly lit tunnel. “This is what I’d do.”

Ch’joh looked at him, startled. “Weyrsinger? Like C’gan?”

“Harper,” J’pei said. “The ones that teach.”

“Don’t see how that’s different than Weyrsinger,” Ch’joh said. He mulled it over. “Do Weyrsingers usually do more entertaining than C’gan does? Or is it just…” He thought back to some of the recent conversations with older greenriders, learning long term plans they normally wouldn’t have been let in on for a few more Turns yet. “Just that none of the other crafts have Weyr-specific names?” J’pei nodded. “So you like their plan, then, for no Thread. For us all to apprentice at the Craft Halls?”

“They like my plan too,” J’pei said. That was new. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe training had kept Ch’joh too busy to be told everything. “About making a new Craft. They think the courier services will be good for riders that aren’t interested in other crafts.”

“Keep dragonriders as men apart, still,” Ch’joh mused. “Doing things no one else can do. Let the hidebound ones keep a little of their egos intact.” He stretched again. “They still think we ought to wait until that damn Red Star’s passed through the Eye Rock without Threading us a few times?”

J’pei sighed, nodding.

The two of them joined the brooding dragons in the Hatching Ground after their early dinner. Namith sulked by the stands, still not allowed near the eggs. Quite a lot of other dragons lounged around the hot sand too, grey-muzzled like Tagath, occasionally twitching their head-knobs towards Nemorth.

_ Don’t see why Nemorth gets to be close and I don’t, _ Namith said, her tail tip lashing, throwing up grains of sand.  _ I talked to the Weyr and made it hot. I helped! _

“Well when you lay your own eggs you can let whoever you want near them,” Ch’joh said, leaning down to pat the edge of her wing. “I’m sure they’ll be even more beautiful and you’ll want to show them off—”

Angry shouting echoed into the Hatching Ground from the leadership’s chambers. J’pei froze at the sound of his father’s raised voice, blood draining from his face. Surugath rose, wings mantled, and Namith shot into the air. Ch’joh planted himself between J’pei and the shouting, unconscious of jumping to his feet, wondering if he’d need his knife, only to find it was already drawn.

Nemorth grumbled. An ancient brown dragon grumbled back and rolled over, blocking off that distant entrance, muffling the angry voice. Namith landed in front of the main entrance, chittering to herself.

A minute later, silence fell. Shortly after that loud, fast footsteps thudded past the entrance, towards the Lower Caverns.

“What the seven hells is that all about?” Ch’joh asked.

“You need to stop doing that,” J’pei said, indicating the knife with a tilt of his head.

“Do not,” Ch’joh muttered, but he sheathed it. Escalating from fists to knives was for  _ outweyr _ folk, who weren’t risking dragon lives. Not that Ch’joh cared if the dragons of abusive riders died, but J’pei would. Ugh, and everyone else would too, and if he lethally broke the  _ no fighting _ rule they might break it back to eliminate him as a threat, and then  _ Namith _ would be dead, and—

_ I wouldn’t let them, _ Namith said. She sent an image of herself in flight, plucking Ch’joh up like a wherry, ferrying him  _ between _ to safety. The rising panic abated.

Esme filled them in the next day, when C’gan led them back home in time for lunch instead of having it packed.

“That tight-fisted son of a watch-wher’s gone and fucking cancelled the Turn’s End Feast,” Esme said, thumping down onto the bench at their table. Ch’joh made a loud noise of protest around his food. Esme gestured agreement at him. “Right? It’s ridiculous! We can still have dancing and stories and try to get everyone together for a meal in the middle, but none of it’s to be any  _ more _ food than normal, or dipping more than normal into our spice stores, let alone the wines! He says it was hard enough talking the Lord Holders into sending us clutch-tithes of herdbeast and wherries so soon after Nemorth’s latest, he can’t piss them off by asking more than that, and we’ll have to feed all these candidates, and— and— argh!”

“Damn,” Ch’joh said after swallowing. “How’s the Headwoman taking it?” Even as a newbie that first Turn’s End, and exhausted from caring for fresh-hatched Namith the second, Ch’joh could tell how proud Manora was of making that feast special for everyone.

A mean smile broke through Esme’s angry expression. “She’s declared that if we’re  _ that _ hard up, we can’t risk food waste by letting anyone eat alone; the Weyrwoman still gets meal delivery so that Manora can ‘consult with her on the daily needs of the Weyr’ which I think means putting her feet up while the Weyrwoman eats because Faranth knows Jora’s never been interested in the daily workings of the Weyr before. She doesn’t even do that traditional go-betweening—”

“Traditional what?” Ch’joh asked.

“The Weyrleader has final say in everything,” J’pei explained. “But is  _ expected _ to leave most non-Thread-fighting tasks to the Weyrwoman, who in turn works closely with the Headwoman.”

“If you’ve got a controlling Weyrleader it means the Weyrwoman is mostly a glorified go-between instead of a decision maker,” Esme said. “Mom feels bad for Jora, ‘cause she was pretty young when Carola died, and S’loner just told her what to do instead of teaching, and when  _ he _ died there was this council of a handful of bronzeriders that couldn’t fucking agree on shit, and then F’lon never bothered asking anybody’s opinion of anything, and then there was an even  _ bigger  _ council of bronzes talking over each other. Somewhere in there Jora just gave up and told them to schedule meetings with the Headwoman themselves, and she’d just sit in on them so everyone could pretend tradition was being met.”

“So her job is really to make baby dragons and not be listened to,” Ch’joh said. “And  _ our _ job is to  _ not _ make baby dragons, and not be listened to.”

“Yeah,” Esme said. The mean smile came back. “Dad could handle coming to the dining cavern for all his meals, but Manora got Winona and Gullers to dig these rusty old clamps out of storage to lock the weyrshafts. Every time one of the wingleaders has come howling in here about nobody responding to their hollering for klah, she’s pointed them straight at Dad. It’s beautiful.”

~

Sanra shooed J’pei off from child-minding the first afternoon of Turn’s End, telling him to go have fun dancing. He snuck back into the Hatching Ground instead. The sands weren’t comfortable to stand on for very long now, but not so hot walking was painful. Surugath let him climb up onto her back, lying down between her spine and wing, good arm draped between her lowest neck ridges. It wasn’t quiet, with all the clutch-guarding dragons crooning and chirping to each other, but it was far more peaceful than the dining cavern.

Ch’joh showed up after sundown and planted himself at the closest distance Surugath allowed people, hands on his hips. J’pei didn’t look up, watching him through Surugath’s eyes. A line of bright colors slashed his chest, bunching up at one hip. “I know it’s not the same without Earl around to ruin some asshole’s night, but weren’t you looking forward to Turn’s End?”

“People,” J’pei mumbled.

“Didn’t catch that,” Ch’joh said. He shifted his feet on the sand, and crossed his arms. “Are you okay?”

No. Some of the older women had been trying to make him and R’gul cross paths lately, convinced father and son just needed to talk things out. Even some of the older dragonriders had made pointed comments about being  _ able _ to talk to his father, unlike F’lon’s sons. Somehow, he doubted they’d made any similar comments to R’gul when the bronzerider was avoiding  _ J’pei _ after the Hatching.

“If it’s your arm you’re worried about,” Ch’joh said, when J’pei didn’t answer. “Olivia told me tucking your elbow into your vest and not using that hand should keep the dancing from aggravating it, now it’s out of the sling.”

J’pei looked up. “She did?” He’d meant to ask her, but then the thought of being in the dining cavern when the  _ entire Weyr _ was there too made him feel sick.

“Yeah.” Ch’joh shifted again. “Do you want me to go away?”

“No!” J’pei swung down off of Surugath, to his feet, and then didn’t know what to say after that. No, he didn’t want Ch’joh to go away, not ever. How did you tell someone that?  _ Should _ you tell someone that?

“Okay,” Ch’joh said, sounding surprised. And looking...happy? J’pei was pretty sure that was a happy expression. “So... _ do _ you wanna go dance? Since we missed it all last Turn?”

“Do you want to?” J’pei asked. Surugath rumbled with quiet laughter next to him.

“I asked first,” Ch’joh said, grinning. He wore the bright sash J’pei had given him his first Turn’s End at the Weyr diagonally across his chest. Now J’pei was looking through his own eyes instead of Surugath’s, he realized the bunch at one hip was actually J’pei’s own eye-searing vest tucked through it.

“I want to dance,” J’pei admitted. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t want to get swung around in a switching song right into my father.”  _ I’d probably punch him, _ J’pei didn’t add.

Ch’joh shuddered. “I wouldn’t either.” He held out the vest, too far away to throw it. “But there’s more of us than there is of him, and I’d kick his ass for you.”

“Don’t,” J’pei said. He closed his eyes against the image of Ch’joh getting  _ his _ shoulder dislocated too.

“Okay, no ass-kicking, just avoidance, I promise,” Ch’joh said. He shook the vest. “Come on. Sit the switching songs out, and I’ll play lookout for the rest.”

J’pei really did want to dance. “Thanks.” He stroked gently above Surugath’s eye ridge as she settled back down to nap, no longer following the conversation. He had to step carefully around Nemorth’s tail to reach Ch’joh. He looked back at the clutch while shrugging on his vest, buttoning it just enough to tuck his elbow inside.

The crowded dining cavern echoed with weyrfolk spinning across the floor in bright colors and jangling adornments, musicians sitting atop tables with their feet on the benches. J’pei froze in the entrance. Ch’joh turned to him; J’pei grabbed his hand. Ch’joh looked startled again, then squeezed his hand reassuringly. They’d taken each other’s hands for comfort or to lead each other places for ages, and grabbed a lot more than hands when practicing acrobatics; why did it feel so weighty  _ now? _

“I see Esme over there,” Ch’joh said, and gestured with his head across the crowd. J’pei spotted her too, and that was enough to step into the swirling dancers, feet picking up the rhythm as they wove through the transformed dining cavern. Ch’joh’s grip tightened with each jostle, and didn’t lighten up when the crowd thinned. The song ended before they reached Esme; J’pei paused out of long habit, waiting to hear the opening beat of the next song. Slower than the previous one. J’pei impulsively spun his hand in Ch’joh’s to a lead position, feet sidestepping to put them face to face.

Ch’joh grinned at him, tucking his other hand behind his back. “Bet we can outdance everyone else one-handed.”

“Sucker’s bet,” J’pei said, smiling back. He led them to the outer edge of the crowd, though, with less people to bump into.

Turn’s End wasn’t the time or place for the flashy acrobatic moves, even if his arm had healed, and neither of them had had time for social dances since Impressing. Nothing they’d practiced worked right now. But they  _ knew _ each other. Knew when to speed up or slow down, a quick glance aside leading to an open patch of floor, the grin of delight at pulling off a tricky move. Ch’joh goaded J’pei into trying a one-armed dip with just his eyebrows and a smirk, and laughed louder than the music when J’pei almost dropped him.

They danced through five songs before taking a break, Esme flagging them down from the sidelines with snacks and fruit juice.

This was  _ fun. _ Why did the Weyr only have dances at Turn’s End? They ought to do this all the time. The Holds held dances at other festivals and some Gathers. Did weyrfolk used to join in those celebrations, flying down from the mountains to dance and sing with the rest of Pern? Could he talk Manora into making time for them here, if the Weyrleader was going to keep declaring Holds unfriendly?

The switching song came on. Esme spun Ch’joh out onto the dance floor, both of them laughing. J’pei stayed on the sidelines with Gullers and Rishall, tugging his arm out of his vest for a minute to talk in sign about how the clutch was doing. Gullers had been coming to feel the sands every morning.

The song ended with Ch’joh somewhere far out of sight. J’pei craned his neck trying to see where he’d wound up, but couldn’t spot him before the next one started. Gullers patted him on the shoulder as she and Rishall stepped away to dance again. J’pei swallowed a disappointed sigh, slumping on the bench. It wasn’t like he’d asked Ch’joh to come back. He hadn’t even realized how little he wanted to dance with anyone else until they’d started, anyway, so—

“Hey,” Ch’joh said. J’pei jerked, looking up. “You sitting this one out, or…?”

“You came back,” J’pei said.

“Promised to play lookout for you, didn’t I?” Ch’joh said, smiling. It wasn’t quite his normal big grin or relaxed smile, and J’pei didn’t know what to think of it. He shifted on his feet, not sitting down. “Lotta practice having fun and keeping an eye out at the same time.”

“You don’t have to,” J’pei said. He didn’t want to stop Ch’joh having fun, remembered how thrilled he’d been after his first switching song ever. Why had J’pei told him that worry about running into R’gul? He never wanted to make the  _ Weyr _ a place Ch’joh had to stay on alert. He’d only started to ease up on the recent vigilance when Olivia cleared J’pei to take his sling off.

The odd smile dropped away. Oh no. What had J’pei said wrong? “I mean, watching for my dad,” J’pei said quickly. “Forget him.”

“In a heartbeat,” Ch’joh said, waving his hand dismissively, blowing a puff of air from the side of his mouth. “Forgotten. Old news. Lost to time.”

J’pei felt the corner of his own mouth twitch up into a smile.  _ Stay with me, _ J’pei wanted to ask.  _ Dance with me, play music with me, sit and rest your feet with me. _ But this was Turn’s End, this was a celebration, all their friends were here, wanting to dance with them too. He couldn’t just selfishly ask Ch’joh to ignore everyone else. Didn’t  _ want _ to ask him to ignore everyone else.

Just...wanted him to stay with J’pei the whole night too.

Somehow.

“You,” Ch’joh said, flicking J’pei’s forehead. “Are getting lost in there.” He planted a hand on one hip and cocked his head to the side. “Surugath not napping like I thought?”

“No, she is,” J’pei said.

“Lucky you.” Ch’joh sighed exaggeratedly. “Namith’s just awake enough to grumble about all of us dancing in  _ here _ instead of out in the Bowl with  _ her, _ but not accept all my reminders of how balls-shrinkingly cold it is out there.”

J’pei snorted a laugh. Ch’joh grinned and stuck his hand out. J’pei took it. “Come on,” Ch’joh said, pulling J’pei to his feet. “Dance with me. Distract me from my whiny dragon.”

“A tougher challenge than outdancing everyone else one-handed,” J’pei said. Relief flooded through him; Ch’joh wanted to keep dancing with him, too.

“I’m always a challenge,” Ch’joh said. J’pei didn’t know what to say to that, so he just counted time with his feet and led them into the dance.


	21. Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turn’s End, AAT 2495 to 2496

Ch’joh woke up before all the other weyrlings the second day of Turn’s End, and couldn’t get back to sleep. He stared blearily around the dark barracks, grumbling silently in his head. He’d danced until he thought his feet would fall off last night, then played gitar until his fingers cramped. He should be sleeping like the dead.

_Dead things don’t sleep,_ Namith told him, equally grumbly. _Dead things don’t do anything._

_They decompose,_ Ch’joh said. He swung himself out of bed and into day clothes. Might as well get up and get breakfast. If he stayed here he’d just stare across the pallets in the direction of J’pei’s bunk, unable to make out more than a vague lump under the blankets, willing him to wake up.

J’pei had danced nearly as much as Ch’joh and matched all of his gitar turns with drumming. It’d be an asshole move to wake him up just because he didn’t want to be the only one awake. _Someone_ would be up in the Lower Caverns.

Namith followed Ch’joh out of the barracks, complaining about the cold snow while he made sure the door was closed again behind them, then launched into the sky. She only spent half her nights in the barracks now, the other half in the Hatching Ground. Sometimes she wanted to be close to her rider. Sometimes she wanted to be close to her brooding clutchmates.

Today ought to be full of feast preparations. Even with sore feet and hangovers the adults should have been directing the older weyrbrats in washing, chopping, boiling, and so on. Instead just the usual breakfast crew worked leisurely in the kitchens, and a handful of people ate half-awake in the dining cavern, easy to spot with the tables still shoved to the walls. Ch’joh grabbed klah, loaded up a tray with food, and sat down next to Anjali.

“Good morning,” Anjali said, smiling sleepily. “Are you busy this morning?”

“No,” Ch’joh said. Trying to figure out if J’pei dancing with him and _only_ with him all night meant what his overly-optimistic idiot heart _wanted_ it to mean or not didn’t count as busy.

“Would you keep me company?” Anjali asked. “Olivia reduces the number of ongoing projects just before Turn’s End, but a few need to happen, and I volunteered to mind them.”

“Sure,” Ch’joh said. After breakfast he followed Anjali to the still-room, and sang her a handful of songs about wild woolbeasts he’d picked up on the road. She hummed along during the choruses, checking on distillations, separations, and mysterious herbal processes Ch’joh didn’t understand but trusted were important.

_Surugath’s awake,_ Namith said happily, as Ch’joh ran out of woolbeast songs, and was deciding between an obnoxiously punny one or a sea shanty next. _Everyone’s awake!_

_Is J’pei?_ Ch’joh asked. Anjali paused in her work to watch him. Some dragonriders completely lost track of the world while conversing with their dragons, but Ch’joh always stayed alert. Maybe one day when they had their own private weyr he’d be able to relax.

_Yes,_ Namith said. _He brought hide-oils. The sand is_ very _dry. Surugath says dry is better for the eggs because shell is not hide._ Namith quieted back down to a stream of emotions at the back of Ch’joh’s mind, done saying what she wanted to.

“Namith says the sands are drying out Surugath’s hide,” Ch’joh told Anjali. She nodded.

“Olivia’s scheduled us to start brewing big batches of their oils right after Turn’s End,” Anjali said. “I think she’s excited; there haven’t been this many hatchlings expected at once in decades.”

“Wasn’t the one before us two dozen?” Everyone had made such a big deal out of the latest being only twelve, he’d assumed the earlier ones were huge.

Anjali shrugged slightly. “I don’t know. But with four of you, there’ll likely be more than that.” She turned away, looking around the still-room. Then she started counting and re-arranging supplies.

“Is that one of your ‘so vital it has to be done over the Turn’s End days’ tasks?” Ch’joh asked, when Anjali pulled out a stack of clean rags and started shaking them out one at a time and folding them in a different style than before.

“No.” Her lips spread thin in a wry grimace. “Turn’s End’s put people in a matchmaking mood and I don’t want to…” She trailed off and waved one hand through the air.

“More like a busybody mood,” Ch’joh said, grimacing back. “When we were playing music last night, the Weyrleader’s dance partners kept maneuvering to put him right in front of us.”

The first time it had happened Ch’joh mangled the tune, hands instinctively gripping the gitar tight enough to swing it. He _did not like_ R’gul being in the same _cavern_ as J’pei, let alone a few yards. Fortunately the Weyrleader seemed equally uncomfortable, steering back through the crowd the instant he noticed his son’s proximity, and finding a different partner at the end of the song. But they kept doing it.

Anjali sighed. “And here I thought S’ten’s wingmates handing me off to him throughout the switching songs was bad enough. If they all do it again on Last Night, let’s team up.” She smiled maliciously, which Ch’joh hadn’t ever seen her do before. “I’m sure that the Weyrleader and his wingsecond will make unexceptionably _proper_ dance partners.”

Ch’joh laughed. Anjali smiled more broadly. Then her eyes alighted on a shelf next to Ch’joh. “Oh!” she said. “That’s not supposed to be empty. Can you check the linen store room for me? We ought to have a whole stack of straining cloths, and if they’ve been put away in there instead, I want to collect them all before anyone goes rummaging through there for table-runners for tonight.”

“Sure,” Ch’joh said.

Halfway to the linens, a gaggle of children poured out of a side tunnel, spotted Ch’joh, and immediately began chanting “Story! Story! Story!” in their high voices.

Ch’joh crossed one arm over his chest and planted his elbow in his hand, resting his cheek on his fist as he stared down at them. “You want a story from me?” Fair enough. It _was_ Second Day, after all.

“You know Cloaked Robin ones!” said a weyrbrat Ch’joh was _pretty_ sure was a fosterling.

“And mermaid stories!” Yatin said. Tolley and Tollara nodded from behind him.

“And Crom mining ghosts,” said one of the ones at the back of the gaggle, sounding like they weren’t sure they actually wanted to hear those ones.

“That’s true…” Ch’joh said, uncurling his fist to drum two fingers on his cheek. “I _do_ know all those stories...but have you earned them?”

“Yes!” All the children started listing chores they’d done, and teaching ballads they'd memorized, and nice things they’d done for other people in the Weyr.

“Hm,” Ch’joh said, pretending to think. “Hm, hm, hm. Hmmmm...no.”

“What!” a dozen voices exclaimed.

“No, that’s simply all too boring,” Ch’joh said.

“Well what’s _not_ boring?” Yatin asked, crossing his arms. Ch’joh didn’t think he was the oldest of this group (J’pei would have known for sure) but he was the tallest, which made his fidgeting stand out more than the others. Was he Tinall’s little brother? He wasn’t Rishall’s, Ch’joh knew that.

“Sneaking into the Hatching Ground,” Ch’joh said, shrugging slightly. All the weyrbrats gasped. The Hatching Ground was _always_ off limits, outside Hatchings. And right now it was full of very protective dragons. “Without any of the wingleaders or Lower Caverns workers catching you.”

_“Just_ sneak in?” the one who’d known about Crom mining ghosts asked warily.

“Sure, if you want,” Ch’joh said. “That’ll get you at least one story, the day after tomorrow.” That got a groan from the lot. Ch’joh threw his hands in the air. “I’m busy today!” That was a total lie. “But I bet you’ll all stay longer than just a peek.”

“Why?” Tollara asked, Tolley asking too a second behind her.

“Because J’pei’s in there with Surugath right now,” Ch’joh said. The weyrbrats took off running before he even finished his sentence. He covered his snickers, listening to them whoop and giggle. There. Now J’pei could tell all the stories he wanted without going into the Lower Caverns and being ambushed by busybodies. Ch’joh whistled cheerfully all the way to the linen store room and back, then relayed what he’d done to Anjali.

“Oh good,” Anjali said, taking the straining cloths. “They all missed his stories last Turn, when you had the hatchlings.”

“Shards,” Ch’joh said, leaning in the archway. “They’ve all gotten bloody _huge_ since then.”

“The hatchlings or the children?” Anjali asked, laughter in her voice.

“Oh, the children for sure,” Ch’joh said. “Soon they won’t fit in their cots at all, while our dainty dragons are scarce bigger than they hatched.” Anjali giggled. Ch’joh stretched. “How’s dorm life working out? Better than weyring? Worse?”

“It’s very convenient,” Anjali said. She rolled each straining cloth individually, piling them on the shelf one after another. “Less privacy, but not any worse than back home. It’s nice to walk anywhere I like, anytime, and I can volunteer for overnight shifts now. I can see why Esme wouldn’t give it up for anything, though I might again someday.”

“If you haven’t left us for the Healer Hall yet,” Ch’joh said. Anjali acknowledged that with a nod. “You wanna come spy on J’pei entertaining all those kids with me? If I ask Namith right she’ll get Surugath to not rat us out.”

Anjali shook her head. “Young women too near the Sands is a...delicate proposition, right now.”

“Aw, come on—”

“No, I mean it.” Anjali sighed, turning to look at him. “I might leave anytime, but I have no desire to be _sent.”_

Ch’joh winced. “All right.”

Anjali put the last cloth away, stepped over to the archway, and kissed Ch’joh on the cheek. “I’ll catch up with both of you at the feast tomorrow, I promise.”

“If I can even get him _to_ the feast,” Ch’joh muttered. Anjali patted his hand, and he set off down the tunnel again.

Today, then Middle Day, then another day of stories, then one final dance, and they’d all back to the grind. Though not for long for him and Om'riel, with how dark green Namith and Reeth were getting. Would C’gan put the rest of the weyrlings back on _between_ practice, once they dropped out? Or would the fresh clutch prompt R’gul to interfere with training and make them all fly marathons again?

Winds and Rain, why couldn’t Fax’s bullyboy have slipped up and killed _him_ instead of F’lon? Save everyone a lot of trouble. And if F’lon had turned out to be just as big an asshole, at least no one would have been trying to get him and J’pei to _make up._

Grumbling silently about asshole Weyrleaders and people who wouldn’t leave well enough alone, Ch’joh snuck into the kitchens for pocketable foods, and then into the Hatching Ground.

Surugath gleamed next to her eggs, freshly oiled, radiating satisfaction. Orpith gleamed too, on the other side of the clutch. Several dragonlengths away, N’ris and K’tis worked together on oiling Everth.

J’pei sat halfway up the stands, further away from the main entrance than usual, surrounded by children. Twice as many as had waylaid Ch’joh; they’d either picked up friends, or more had thought of this on their own. From the shadows of the entryway, Ch’joh listened to the melodic rhythm of a seaholder ballad echo around the vast chamber. When J’pei reached the chorus, the children’s voices joined his.

_This is nice,_ Namith said. She and blue Mianath lay sprawled on the hot sand at the base of the stands. _J’pei should hum more. He’s good._

_You mean singing?_ Ch’joh asked. _We do that all the time._

_No,_ Namith said. Her tail flicked on the sand, and snippets of teaching ballads flitted through Ch’joh’s head. _That’s reciting. This is humming._

Ch’joh reached his mind out more, silently asking Namith to share what she meant, and found himself listening to the singing through her senses. So close, he could make out all the words, a little different than the seaholder songs he knew, for all the melody was the same. And he felt…

Happiness? Content and pride and the comfort of familiarity. It took Ch’joh two verses to make sense of it all, to tease out the specific feelings beyond _happy._ It was muted, compared to what he usually felt from Namith. Like listening to a murmur instead of a shout. Another two verses and he realized beyond the murmur was an even softer whisper of over a dozen more curious minds, rising enthusiastically in the chorus.

_He’s quieter than you,_ Namith said, when Ch’joh drew his senses back from hers, only hearing the song through his own ears. _Everyone’s quieter than you. Surugath says to her everyone’s quieter than J’pei._ In the distance, she stretched, wing brushing against Mianath’s. _He’s easy to talk to._

_Yeah,_ Ch’joh agreed, treasuring that glimpse of happiness. _He is._

~

The dining cavern _looked_ like it ought to for the Middle Day Feast. Table-runners, set places, candles to supplement the glowbaskets. All the food tucked away in the kitchens, brought out in serving ware instead of lined up in a buffet. But it didn’t _smell_ like a feast, no treasured spices or complex dishes that took multiple days to prepare. It didn’t _sound_ like one either, the conversations self-conscious and the toasts stilted or joking.

Things did liven up a little during the toasts, awkward as they were, because it was an excuse to knock back the tithed wines faster. Along with the typical ones for safe patrols, good tithes, and everyone’s health, people couldn’t seem to resist indirectly commenting on recent events. Toasts to the health of babies new-born, close to term, and in shell. To tradition, observing all duty ballads, and self discipline. To the greens’ “enthusiasm for life” rubbing off on Nemorth. J’pei stubbornly sat through the entire thing. If he bent his cutlery under the table during some of the more pointed ones, nobody needed to know that. 

Most people left earlier than normal, slinking away to avoid being asked to help wash up. J’pei waited until all the bronzeriders had, refusing to be seen as less patient than them. When he finally stood up to leave, Ch’joh standing up too, Manora and Sanra appeared.

“Ch’joh, could you help me gather up the table-runners?” Sanra asked.

“J’pei, take these to the sinks for me?” Manora asked. She held out a stack of dishes on a serving tray. J’pei took it with a nod.

“I’ll catch up to you,” Ch’joh said.

“No, I’ll come back,” J’pei said. Dropping off dishes would take less time than gathering table-runners, and Sanra was likely to set Ch’joh some other task after that.

J’pei came to an abrupt stop just inside the kitchen cavern, biting off a cuss under his breath. R’gul stood at one of the big sinks, sleeves rolled up, glaring at an old scrub brush attempting to fall off its stick. J’pei should have _known_ Manora would do this. He almost turned right back around; he could just dump the dishes at the nearest table and let someone _else_ deal with it.

Turns of habit got his feet moving forward instead. Okay. He could just set them down and walk away again. Olivia didn’t even want him dancing with his injured shoulder yet, and he’d been oiling Surugath one-handed. Washing dishes must still be right out.

Louder footsteps sounded behind him. R’gul looked up. Their eyes met. J’pei steeled himself, and R’gul looked away first.

“Been a long time since you scrubbed anything, hasn’t it?” Jelally said to R’gul, outpacing J’pei and setting her load of dishes down on the counter next to the sink. J’pei’s heart sunk. Was she here on coincidence, or were they all _that_ determined to make sure J’pei and R’gul talked?

He sighed. Maybe at least sticking around for a few minutes would get them all to _stop._

“A long time, yes,” R’gul said. He held the brush towards her, not looking at J’pei setting down the tray full of dishes. “Is there a...sturdier one of these?”

“Twine just needs re-tying,” Jelally said. She took it from him, then handed it to J’pei with a broad smile. “Show your father how that’s done, would you?”

J’pei silently picked the soggy knot apart with his fingernails.

“You’ve a steady lad there, Weyrleader,” Jelally said pointedly. She jerked her chin towards the sink full of soapy water. “Always willing to pitch in with what the Weyr needs, like you. Not like that mother of his. Reiko was always so—”

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t the highest praise,” J’pei said, as calmly as he could. “I’m going to tell Manora about you foisting inventory off on the weyrbrats.”

Jelally gaped at him in shock, then flushed and sputtered something about delegation.

“No, she made it clear that was a task for _you,”_ J’pei said. He finished unknotting the twine, re-arranged the scrub brush to maximize the useful bits left, and rewrapped it. He handed it directly back to R’gul, looking him dead in the eye. “I appreciate that you’ve never spoken ill of her around me.”

“It’s improper to deride a child’s parent where they can hear,” R’gul said. Jelally flushed harder, spun on one heel, and fled the kitchens. R’gul watched her leave. Then he turned back to the sink, beginning to scrub a pot, and said, “You’re not a child anymore.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do if you start insulting her too,” J’pei said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.

“Grab another brush and help me,” R’gul said.

“Can’t,” J’pei said, not even bothering to shrug. “Olivia’s orders.”

“Hmph,” R’gul said. He held the pot up for inspection. It needed a longer soak before being scrubbed, not that J’pei was going to tell him that. “You take after Reiko.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t understand why that’s a compliment to you,” R’gul said. He furrowed his brows, scrubbing the scorched crust of sauce on the pan furiously. “She was as selfish as they come. She _left_ you, and her father.”

“Grandfather and I had each other,” J’pei pointed out, used to the sadness that thought brought. Missing B’sur never got any easier. “And he had Loroth. I had my siblings. I had…” J’pei’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard. “She thought I had _you.”_

R’gul froze. He closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, shook his head slightly, and set the pot aside in the other sink. Must have finally realized it needed to soak. He grabbed two plates off the nearest stack and plunged them into the water. “She knew a bronzerider’s duties take precedence.”

“Kenta only had her,” J’pei said, ignoring the nonsense about duty. “And you know what? Even if he stayed here, and she only left because _she_ wanted to, that would have been fine.” R’gul scowled at the dishes. “There’s nothing wrong,” J’pei said. “With _wanting_ things for yourself.”

The scowl deepened, turning from the dishes to J’pei. _“That_ is why you're only a greenrider."

"I'm the rider I am because Surugath is who she is, and there’s nothing _only_ about her!” J’pei slashed his hand through the air. “Would you care a whit less for Hath if he were blue?"

"He wouldn't be _who_ he is if he were any color but _what_ he is." R’gul turned back to the sink. J’pei tried to slow his breathing down, hating how riled up his father made him. “We’re all what we are,” R’gul said. “And Reiko was selfish and short sighted.” J’pei clenched his fists by his side, seething silently. The plates cleaned much more easily than the pot; R’gul grabbed a second pair. “No wonder you’re green. _She_ would have been.”

“Is that why you won’t let the girls stand?” J’pei asked quietly. He turned to rest one hip on the counter, so he could face his father. “Afraid Esme will Impress the way I did, and you’ll have _two_ greenrider children?”

“Girls do not ride fighting dragons,” R’gul snapped.

“You don’t know that,” J’pei snapped back. “So it’s not written in the archives! How much have we lost to time? We don’t even know who rode Faranth’s first clutch! There could be _centuries_ of women on _all_ the dragons that we’ve forgotten about!” There _were,_ in the greenrider songs, but he couldn’t say _that._

_“All_ the dragons?” R’gul said. He dropped the plate and scrub brush, twisting around to prod J’pei’s chest with one soapy, pruny finger. “Girls on greens is ridiculous enough, but to imply they could ride—”

“Bronze,” J’pei spat out. He stared R’gul down, ignoring the finger pressing hard against his sternum. “You should have let _Gullers_ stand with Rally, if you wanted a bronzerider son so badly.”

_“YOU WOULD DESTROY THIS WEYR!”_ R’gul shouted. J’pei flinched back. _“The ancient laws exist for good reason, you irresponsible, impulsive, disrespectful—”_ J’pei’s shoulders started to hunch up like they had when he was a kid, before he got the knack of maintaining an outward show of calm in the face of reprimands. Old shame in disappointing his father welled up inside him, making him feel sick, even as he tried to remind himself he didn’t _care_ what his father thought anymore. The rant went on and on. No one knew their place anymore. The greenriders made a mockery of authority. Their dragons were scarcely worth the resources they consumed.

_That_ knocked the shame right out of him. J’pei straightened up, anger stiffening his spine, long practice at self control schooling his features back to neutral. R’gul had tried to feed pregnant greens firestone. _He_ was the disgrace to this Weyr, not J’pei.

The rant petered out uneasily, R’gul frowning at J’pei’s sudden shift in posture. He even picked up the scrub brush again, rather than demanding a response.

“Does raising your voice work on your wingriders?” J’pei asked.

“They’re sensible enough that I never need to,” R’gul said. He poked experimentally at the soaking pot, scowled at the resistance the brush met, and piled a half dozen bowls into the main sink instead.

“The bronze counsel, then,” J’pei suggested. “Has Benden simply been run by the loudest voices since F’lon died?”

R’gul froze again. Slowly, the lines of anger and arrogance on his face shifted into an expression that was simply _tired._ “...I miss him, you know.”

“He was your friend.” Maybe it was an evasion. It still sounded sincere.

“Don’t get me wrong,” R’gul said. “He drove me mad. Always chasing that fool’s dream of Thread.” He shook his head. “Who would _want_ that?”

J’pei thought of all the songs and stories in which blue and green dragons and their riders saved the day with as much frequency as the browns and bronzes, during a Pass. Thought of Moreta and her golden queen delivering medicines. Thought of the way more and more holders cursed them as parasites every Turn. No, he didn’t want Thread to return, never wanted to see dragons and riders threadscored, crops and livestock wiped out with so few of them to protect the planet.

But he could understand clinging with both hands to the idea that someday they’d all be heroes again.

“It felt like half the Weyr expected me to be happy, when he died,” R’gul said.

“You two fought all the time,” J’pei said. He remembered that. It was hard to forget.

R’gul waved one hand dismissively. “He fought with everyone. It’s how he was. Even fought with that damn harper of his, for all he listened to him more than the rest of us. Never knew how to back down, how to compromise.” His hand dropped to grip the edge of the sink tight. “Sometimes I wonder if he’d still be alive, if he had.”

A Gather, a Lord Holder’s son jostled, one of Fax’s men claiming the boy insulted him, F’lon intervening, demanding the man be the one to apologize instead. A short tale and a shorter death.

“If he had known how,” J’pei said quietly. “Would he still have been F’lon?”

R’gul jerked. He stared, frozen, into the sudsy water. Then he sighed slowly, shaking his head. “No.”

J’pei stood silently for a few more minutes. R’gul was tired, and sad, but while J’pei wanted to find words of comfort for him, he wanted _more_ to grab him by the neck and dunk his head in the sink.

Why was he here? He could be anywhere else in the Weyr right now. He could be back in the dining cavern, helping Ch’joh help Sanra. Or in the Hatching Ground with Surugath. Or even jumping in the ice cold lake for the hell of it, not standing by the sinks with his sharding _father._

Maybe they’d talked long enough to be left alone now. Maybe everyone would keep trying to make them get along. Either way, J’pei was done. He wasn’t going to ignore or go along with anyone’s interference anymore; if one more person pushed them together after today, he’d tell them to knock it off. C’gan was the only person in direct command of J’pei these days, and _he_ had avoided both of them just as much as they’d avoided each other.

It wouldn’t be that simple, he knew, if anyone was truly determined. Authority and influence were two different things; just look at the back and forth between R’gul and Manora over supplies and traditions. But he could try.

“If you’re not going to scrub dishes,” R’gul said. “You could at least set them to soak.” He nodded his head to the next sink over.

J’pei pushed off the counter without another word, walking away. R’gul didn’t ask where he was going or snap at him to come back. Maybe he didn’t want to risk the embarrassment of being ignored, even with no one to witness it. Maybe he just didn’t care.

_Surugath?_ J’pei called out silently. _Can you ask Namith where Ch’joh is?_

_She just asked me where you were,_ Surugath said. Ch’joh appeared in the entrance to the kitchen as J’pei reached it. They both startled. Ch’joh put his hand on J’pei’s good shoulder, pulling him closer while glaring past him at R’gul, and sidestepped to steer them both outside, hand sliding down to J’pei’s back.

“Are you okay?” Ch’joh asked, once they were under the stars. The glare made J’pei expect anger, but Ch’joh sounded anxious. “Sanra had me collecting napkins and candles, and I lost track of you, and you weren’t at the Hatching Ground, and Namith said Surugath said you hadn’t been by so I knew you weren’t going back to the barracks yet, and— and—”

“I’m okay,” J’pei said. He took a deep breath and wrapped his arm around Ch’joh’s back too. He felt lighter and lighter the further he walked.

“I don’t like him getting near you,” Ch’joh said. He leaned against J’pei’s side, and shivered. J’pei wanted to give him his cloak, but he’d left it in the Hatching ground. “He’s such a fucking asshole. Did those _other_ assholes ambush you with him or something?”

“Manora loaded me up with dishes,” J’pei said. They crunched through the thin snow to the Hatching Ground. “And she’d pushed him into washing them.”

“Sorry I wasn’t there,” Ch’joh said. He shivered again. Had _both_ of them left their cloaks on the stands?

“It worked out,” J’pei said. Sort of. So he’d been insulted and yelled at. Their talk hadn’t made anything _worse._ “Maybe they’ll leave us alone now.”

“Do you want to be left alone?” Ch’joh asked.

“Not by you,” J’pei said, the words falling out with no time to think them over. Ch’joh stumbled; J’pei tightened his hold. “Ice. Sorry.”

“That wasn’t fucking ice,” Ch’joh muttered. “That’s you stealing my job as local cryptic. _I’m_ supposed to make strange, offhand remarks that confuse everyone else.”

“Not offhand,” J’pei said. They reached the Hatching Ground, so he let go and stepped away to grab their cloaks off the end of the nearest stands, exactly where they’d left them. He impulsively swung one over Ch’joh’s shoulders instead of just handing it to him, before putting his own on. Ch’joh stared at him, frowning with thought, like J’pei was the big map Manora kept tacked up in her workroom and he was trying to plan out the Turn’s gathering expeditions. J’pei stared back, heat from the sands slowly seeping into him, trying to think of what it was he wanted to say.

_...should_ he say anything? He’d just made Ch’joh stumble, letting a little bit slip out. Bad enough J’pei had been so selfish at the dance. Ch’joh was vibrant, brilliant and amazing. It wasn’t fair, telling him how J’pei felt. Especially when he couldn’t even describe those feelings to _himself._

“Fuck,” Ch’joh said eventually, still frowning. “You don’t have any clue what you’re doing, do you?”

“Um,” J’pei said, face heating up much more quickly than the rest of him. He looked over at Surugath in the distance, and back at Ch’joh, whose thoughtful frown now twisted into a series of frustrated and incredulous expressions.

“J’pei,” Ch’joh said slowly. “Do you…” He shook his head. “No, okay, backing up. Explain the cryptic things you just said. Which aren’t really cryptic at all if I’m right— no, no, okay. Yes. Things you said. Explain.”

“I…” The horrible urge to fidget all over struck him. J’pei stuck his hands into his tunic pockets instead, looked at the sand spilling into the entryway, and took a deep breath. Ch’joh asked, he _asked_ so J’pei should _say it._ “It sucks when you’re not here.” Ch’joh made a sharp noise. “I mean...I miss you all day when you’re off training, and everything’s _better_ when you’re here, if I could…”

He _can’t_ just _say_ this.

Ch’joh took a step towards him, winter boots crunching on the spilled sand. “If you could what?”

“If I could be with you all the time I would,” J’pei said quietly, nearly a whisper. “I know that wouldn’t really work because people need space, and we both have duties, and other people we want to hang out with, but I hate it _so much_ when you leave and _everyone leaves_ and I don’t want _you_ to leave but I _don’t know how to hang on—”_

“Whoa, okay!” Ch’joh caught J’pei up in a hug. J’pei clung back, pressing his face against Ch’joh’s shoulder, the first stinging tears soaked up by the cloak. Why was he such a _mess?_ How did other people _do_ this? Admit they felt things without falling apart?

“Okay,” Ch’joh said again. “Okay. Deep breath. I’m not going anywhere.” Ch’joh’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath of his own. “Shells, I’m an asshole. J’pei? Why do you want me to stay?”

“I’m sorry,” J’pei said, voice muffled. It wasn’t fair to Ch’joh to have said all that to him.

“For having a meltdown when I prodded you for answers after you got stuck doing dishes with your shitty excuse for a father?” Ch’joh said, voice half dry sarcasm, half apology. “That’s on me. No _sorry_ needed. But I _am_ an asshole because I _am_ going to keep prodding until you answer my very obnoxious question because— because—” his arms tightened around J’pei. “Because you know how sharding curious I am, so you _know_ how much it’ll eat me up to be told that you want a wreck like me sticking around but not _why.”_

“You’re not a wreck,” J’pei said. He lifted his head up but didn’t let go.

“I am a wagon careening off a cliff and a sailing ship dashed on the rocks,” Ch’joh said. He _did_ pull away, gripping J’pei’s shoulders and looking at him. “I’m a fucking disaster, no survivors, and not even anything worth looting.”

“Oh _fuck_ that,” J’pei said, scowling.

Ch’joh grinned. “Is getting you to cuss gonna be our Turn’s End tradition? I don't remember if we managed it last time, but—”

“You’re _not_ a wreck,” J’pei repeated. Ch’joh clicked his teeth shut, the rest of his mouth following a split second behind, and raised his eyebrows. “You’re amazing. And you _did_ survive, you survived _everything,_ and nothing about your worth is from— from _lootability._ You’re the best person I’ve ever met, the best person anyone could ever meet on this entire planet, and I love you.”

The world froze as they both realized what J’pei had said. They stared at each other in shock.

“Say it again,” Ch’joh whispered.

“I love you,” J’pei said.

Then Ch’joh grabbed his face and kissed him. It was a clumsy, inelegant mashing of lips that smushed both their noses and J’pei never, ever wanted it to stop. He shoved their cloaks out of the way to get his arms around Ch’joh, to hold him close, to _keep_ him here. Ch’joh made a strange, happy sound and let go of J’pei’s face to drape his arms over J’pei’s shoulders instead, one hand curling gently around the back of his head.

“Thank the Winds and Rain,” Ch’joh said an eon later, tilting his head back just enough to look at J’pei, smiling like the sun coming out of the clouds. “I fucking love you too.”

“Really?” J’pei blurted out.

“Yes, even if you’re delusional, because clearly the best person on the whole damn planet is _you,_ not me.” J’pei started to shake his head, but Ch’joh’s grip kept him still. _“Yes,_ you fucking _are._ And I love you. Now get back here so I can keep kissing you, I can do way better than that.”

The second kiss of J’pei’s life was just as amazing as the first, but slower, sweeter, and made him shudder all the way down to his toes. When Ch’joh broke away this time, he looked just as happy as before, and exceedingly smug.

“We’re not going back to the barracks,” Ch’joh said.

“No,” J’pei agreed dazedly.

“Or staying here making out in front of a dozen dragons, including mine laughing at me.” He slid his hands around to lightly rest on J’pei’s chest. “Let’s go to that drop-cave of yours, and you can keep telling me how amazing I am.”

“I can do that,” J’pei said, and they did.

~ 

Nobody saw them sneaking back inside. Ch’joh made _sure_ nobody saw them, pausing to look around every bend in the tunnels, holding a hand up to make J’pei pause too, because if anyone ruined this moment by trying to drag them into chores he would _scream._

They didn’t go up into the drop-cave right away, when they reached it, setting the glowbasket down and making out for a few minutes where they could still stand in the tunnel. Ch’joh remembered J’pei’s reluctance to dance follow, ever, and made sure to lean against the stone wall and _lightly_ pull J’pei toward himself to kiss. He did _not_ give into his impulse to pin J’pei and climb him like a tree. Ruining this moment himself would be even worse than someone else doing it. They had all the time in the world.

Ch’joh did give in to the impulse to finally indulge the fantasy he’d had for two Turns now, of slowly running his hands up and down J’pei’s arms while they made out. J’pei, for his part, didn’t seem to know what to do with his own hands, so Ch’joh grabbed them and put them on his hips.

“Just keep them there,” Ch’joh said. “If you want. For now.” J’pei nodded, looking relieved by the directions, and leaned in to keep kissing before Ch’joh could. Fuck yes.

“Okay,” Ch’joh said eventually. “Okay. My feet are tired and I’m not sitting down in the middle of a tunnel, no matter how out of the way it is.” He scooped the glowbasket back up. “And carrying this makes it hard to climb so of _course_ you have to give me a boost up— wait, crap, your shoulder—”

“I’ve got two,” J’pei said, laughter in his voice, and a moment later hoisted Ch’joh up one-handed. Ch’joh already knew how strong J’pei was, what it felt like to be lifted into the air, from all their dance practices, and none of that made this any less thrilling. Nor did both of them banging their elbows on the walls, or J’pei nearly falling down the drop when they tried to get settled, or Ch’joh accidentally yanking on his braid.

“This is good,” Ch’joh said, when they paused for a moment, J’pei sitting up with his legs hooked over the drop, Ch’joh lying down with his head on J’pei’s lap, the rest of him curled slightly on the stone floor. “I’m not losing my balance here.”

“Yeah,” J’pei agreed. He started slowly running his fingers through Ch’joh’s hair.

“Keep doing that,” Ch’joh said.

J’pei smiled, and neither of them said anything else for a few minutes more. Ch’joh twisted the glowbasket shut, carefully setting it aside, so they could watch the cave’s loose glow-worms inching along the dark rock above them.

“I know I said we should talk,” Ch’joh said. “But this is really nice.”

“Mm.”

“We should let some glows loose in the barracks,” Ch’joh said. “Bet hatchlings would like watching them crawl around. New constellations every night.”

“And try to eat them,” J’pei pointed out.

“True.” Ch’joh hummed. “I’ve seen them out in the big lava chamber. But not the main barracks. Maybe it’s all out of tasty, tasty minerals. We’ll have to smear some fresh rocks around up there for them.”

“Mm,” J’pei said again. Then said, quietly, like he wasn’t sure it was allowed, “I love you.”

Ch’joh’s breath caught. Shards, was that going to happen _every time?_ Oh please, let J’pei keep saying that. “I love you too.” He stretched one hand up to brush his fingers against J’pei’s face; J’pei leaned into the touch with a soft sigh. “You know,” Ch’joh said. “A couple Turns ago I didn’t think I’d ever say that to anyone.” He felt J’pei’s breath catch this time. “I knew I liked people, and worried about them, but love? I couldn’t do that. And ‘I love you _too’?_ That’d take someone loving me back, and that was clearly never going to happen.”

J’pei’s “mm” at _that_ sounded distinctly unhappy.

“Don’t worry,” Ch’joh said. He dropped his arm again, and twined his fingers through J’pei’s free hand. “Namith made it even clearer that that was a load of shit.”

“Good,” J’pei said. He bent down, resting his forehead against Ch’joh’s, hand in his hair going still. “You were right, you know,” J’pei said, even more quietly than that _I love you._ “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” Ch’joh said. “I’m not going anywhere without you. We’ll figure it out.” This close it was a lot easier to cup his hand around J’pei’s cheek. “Do you know what you _want?_ While we’re spending all our time together? Because _I’ve_ got _lots_ of ideas.”

“Mm?” A hopeful hum this time. Much better.

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said. “But I can talk forever. We both know that. I wanna know what _you_ want first.”

That got an embarrassed noise, whoops. “Told you I don’t know what I’m doing,” J’pei mumbled. He’d closed his eyes, but not moved his head away from Ch’joh.

“You sure seemed to like kissing,” Ch’joh said.

“Kissing’s nice,” J’pei said. “Kissing you’s _amazing.”_

“Good.” Ch’joh tilted his head back to plant a kiss on J’pei’s nose. “Flatter me more.” A laugh, excellent. “You never did answer Esme’s nosy questions,” Ch’joh mused. “About who you like.”

J’pei straightened up with a groan, covering his face in his hands. Shells, _that_ had been the wrong thing to say.

“I mean, you like me, obviously,” Ch’joh said hurriedly. He wiggled his shoulders up so he could get more of himself on J’pei’s lap; trying to sit up _and_ look at him in the drop-cave would only work if he distanced himself, and _that_ wasn’t happening. “Because you’re a lunatic who goes dragonriding over the lake without safety gear.”

“I’m not a lunatic for liking you,” J’pei mumbled around his hands. The next bit came out as a quiet wail. “I don’t _know_ what I _am!”_

“Whoa, shit, it’s okay! You don’t have to know!”

“Yes I do! Everyone else does!”

_“Fuck_ everyone else,” Ch’joh said emphatically. “You’re not _them,_ you’re _you.”_

“What if I don’t want to?”

“What?”

“Fuck everyone else.” J’pei dropped his hands, taking a deep breath.

“You mean like, fuck like ignore, or fuck like—”

“I’ve only ever…” J’pei took another deep breath. “Had. Those kinds of thoughts. About two people.”

Ch’joh bit his tongue on all the questions shoving their way up his throat. That might explain why he’d never spotted J’pei eyeing anyone. Or maybe J’pei was just super subtle. Ch’joh grabbed one of J’pei’s dropped hands, stroking his thumb back and forth over the knuckles.

“And...they took time,” J’pei said slowly. “To show up. The thoughts, feelings, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Ch’joh prompted, when it seemed like _slowly_ had turned into _not talking at all._

“It didn’t seem like everyone else who’s...who’s attracted or _not_ right away. I know I’m not straight, since both of them are men— one’s you—”

“Oh thank Faranth,” Ch’joh blurted out.

J’pei laughed, less amused and more nervous, this time. “So am I an invert? Like Rishall? And you? But I don’t know why my feelings changed, why at first I wasn’t attracted at all, not, not physically I mean, I really like being friends with you. Becoming your friend is the best thing to ever happen to me.”

So it turned out hearing _I love you_ didn’t mean Ch’joh’s heart was going to stop going all funny in his chest whenever J’pei said something like that.

“And then one day I just _was_ attracted _,_ suddenly I wanted to do all the things that make everyone else so _stupid—”_

Ch’joh laughed.

“Argh.” J’pei buried his face in his hands again. “I didn't mean...nobody’s stupid for— I mean— it’s _fine_ if…”

“No, I get it,” Ch’joh said, still laughing a little. He patted J’pei’s elbow awkwardly. “The feelings aren’t stupid but a _lot_ of what people _do_ with them _are._ Trust me, I know.”

“Thanks,” J’pei said, voice muffled and mortified.

“Gimme your hand back,” Ch’joh said. “I like holding it.” And not having J’pei hiding his face. To his delight, J’pei did what he asked. Well, demanded. “So since you don’t know why your feelings changed,” Ch’joh said, J’pei’s hand secure in his once more. “You don’t know if it’ll happen with someone who’s not a guy, which’d maybe make you bi, like Gullers.”

J’pei nodded.

“You don’t have to be either,” Ch’joh said. “I know Esme’s the Weyr expert on sexy feelings and those’re the only two she suggested, but there’s a whole planet of other, like, whatevers, out there.” He waved a hand through the air. “It’s okay.”

They lapsed into silence again, this time with Ch’joh trying to soothingly stroke whatever bits of J’pei he could reach with his free hand, which at this angle meant his knees, occasionally patting his elbow. Slowly, the tension eased out of J’pei, until he was running his fingers through Ch’joh’s hair again, both of them watching the glow-worms.

“I knew what I was pretty early,” Ch’joh said after a while. “Being an invert wasn’t...a good thing, in that part of Tillek. Even before then, I knew I was a problem. Never watched my mouth, got distracted doing chores, had the fucking audacity to be born in spring instead of winter like a nice, sensible baby.”

“Babies aren’t problems,” J’pei said. Even only illuminated by escaped glow-worms, Ch’joh could tell he was frowning. _“You’re_ not a problem.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Ch’joh said. “Ain’t _there_ anymore.” He squeezed J’pei’s hand. He didn’t like thinking about home. But it felt important to say, right now. “I liked myself out of spite, for awhile. I was queer, in all sorts of ways, and people wanted me dead for it. _I_ wanted me _alive,_ so, you know, I decided my differences had to be good things. Or at least just plain _not bad.”_

“I like you,” J’pei said.

“I like you too,” Ch’joh said automatically. “Wait, shit, I forgot to say. I forgot to say it back.” He tilted his head to make sure he could look at J’pei’s face. “Being your friend is the best thing to ever happen to me, too.” He settled back down, patting J’pei’s knee. “It’s fucking awesome.”

J’pei smiled, that strange, half-disbelieving, painfully hopeful one. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah. Really fucking awesome. The _best.”_ Ch’joh chased his thoughts back down. “Anyway. Leaving. People wanting me dead. I was used to, you know, _queer weather_ meaning the crops would get fucked up, and _being_ an _immoral perverted queer_ meaning I had to run real fast or fight real hard, and or everyone saying somebody at the Gather had a _queer look to ‘em_ meaning they were a stranger, and dangerous.”

Ch’joh squeezed J’pei’s hand. “But in the trading caravan, even when places we visited said it like that, I kept hearing it differently. We’d pass a field of all one kind of flower, but right by the boulder marking the turn was a completely other kind, bigger or smaller and a brilliant color, this splash that just _stood out,_ and Geroln would tilt his head and call ‘em _mighty queer blooms, those._ When we went far enough north for those green lights in the sky, _those_ were queer. Not the way thunderstorms were, to run from, to curse out for driving hail into the crops, but to just _admire._ To be awed by.”

“You awe me,” J’pei whispered, fingers brushing over Ch’joh’s temples.

“I know I told you to flatter me, but that’s unfair,” Ch’joh said. He stretched up, kissed J’pei, and flopped back down. “There were lots more. And they were never bad. It was things that were strange, and beautiful.”

Ch’joh let that idea sit for a moment. The light from the glow-worms slowly shifted over them.

“You’re a weyrbred kid who knows more seaholder songs than most sailors I’ve met,” Ch’joh said. “You acted so obedient and responsible in front of the adults that they never suspected you of letting Om’riel sneak out, or me neglect chores to befriend felines, or letting _yourself_ sneak into the Records Room. And then you damn near ate the whole thing, it sounds like!”

“Consumed,” J’pei said dryly. “You don’t eat records.”

“I dunno,” Ch’joh said. “Parchment’s plants and hide is, well, hide, isn’t it? Bit chewy, but there’s all that ink for seasoning...”

J’pei laughed. Ch’joh grinned in triumph.

“You don’t feel attraction the same way most people do,” Ch’joh said, getting it out while J’pei was still laughing, hoping to couple the idea of difference with the feeling of happiness. “Surugath chose you, and we know she’s got excellent taste. You’re strange, and beautiful.”

J’pei’s breath caught. Ch’joh squeezed his hand again.

“So maybe you’re still figuring out the particulars,” Ch’joh said. “You’ve got the important bits. You’ve got me and Namith and Surugath. I’ve met a lot of dragonriders now, and I think you’re a queer one.”

“A queer dragonrider,” J’pei echoed quietly. He squeezed Ch’joh’s hand back. “I think...I can be that. I like that.”

“Good,” Ch’joh said. “Now help me figure out how to sit up and kiss you without falling down this great big hole in the floor.”

The laughter filling the drop-cave was just as sweet as the kisses that followed.


	22. Sands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turn’s End, Early AAT 2496, Winter

J’pei expected the rest of Turn’s End to pass in a daze. That’s what happened in ballads and stories; people got together and the world turned into a blur around them. Instead everything grew clearer, more present. J’pei held Ch’joh’s hand walking from the barracks to breakfast and noticed every patch of groundcover between snowdrifts. Pressed their shoulders together in the dining cavern and felt every fiber of his sleeve against his skin. Murmured comments to make Ch’joh laugh and heard every other voice echoing around them.

“So,” Ch’joh said as they sat on the stands, arms around each other, watching Namith bouncing around the edges of the Hatching Ground and trying to goad Surugath away from her eggs and into a game of tag. “A pack of children is going to hunt me down today, just so you know. I promised them a story earlier.”

“Do you want us to move to the oldfolk’s cavern?” J’pei asked. It was more comfortable than the stands, and if Ch’joh decided on another Cloaked Robin story Zalinna would want to hear it.

“Nah,” Ch’joh said. “I’m gonna be in there a lot once Namith lays. The Old Aunties said I should spend the time out of training with them, learning more stories.” Ch’joh sounded pleased by the idea. “I wanted to know how open about, uh, _this,_ you wanna be.”

“Mm?” J’pei blinked, confused. Ch’joh was the one who’d come to the Weyr nervous about how visible he was, how other people might react to him and D’nis.

“Before anyone comes looking for us today,” Ch’joh clarified. “You’re pretty, um, you keep things close to your chest? And I know like, your sisters don’t give a fuck who knows what they do with who, but some of the other women are really discreet, it’s not like Enid and Earl are the only ones with unknown dads, and I still have _no_ idea what’s going on with L’deni and K’sawa, I swear L’deni _likes_ being mysterious, and you’ve never stepped out with anyone before, so. Um. If you wanna keep this quiet, until you get used to it, or you know, however long. I can do that.”

“Quiet?”

“Yeah.”

It was true, how much he hid his feelings from everyone. Kept them to himself. But…J’pei shifted, trying to look at Ch’joh’s face, read his expression, but Ch’joh just kept staring out across the Hatching Grounds. J’pei looked out too, saw Namith tossing up sand tauntingly half a dragonlength from Nemorth’s far wing, saw Surugath’s tail lashing.

“...everyone knows I love Surugath,” J’pei said. If they paid any attention. “I don’t hide that.”

“That’s different,” Ch’joh said.

“It’s not.”

Ch’joh inhaled sharply. J’pei didn’t know if he’d said the right thing, or the wrong thing, but it was _true._ He leaned over and softly pressed a kiss to the side of Ch’joh’s head. His choppily cut hair, just as jagged and much shorter than the scar on his face, tickled J’pei’s nose. Ch’joh let his breath out slowly.

“Cool,” Ch’joh said after a long minute. He twisted around, his hand coming off J’pei’s shoulders to cup the back of his head, and pulled him into a kiss. J’pei wrapped both arms around him, humming contentedly. Ch’joh’s hand shifted to dig his fingers into J’pei’s hair and massage his scalp.

A loud draconic whine broke them apart. Namith crouched at the bottom of the stands, radiating annoyance that none of her antics had gotten Surugath to come play.

 _I want scritches too,_ Namith said. Ch’joh snorted, then let go of J’pei for a moment, just long enough to stand up and take J’pei’s hands, pulling him to his feet. “The princess is summoning us.”

 _I don’t want scritches,_ Surugath said, before J’pei could ask. _I want to nap and not have sand kicked at me._ J’pei promised to distract Namith for her.

J’pei and Ch’joh scratched Namith’s head-knobs and eye ridges and everywhere else she demanded, until all her annoyance vanished, replaced with relaxed crooning. She wiggled down into a comfortable lounge on the sands at the base of the stands. Ch’joh sat down too, leaning against her side, and beckoned J’pei to join him.

“I don’t think she realizes how much thinner skin is than hide,” Ch’joh said, as the heat of the sand seeped through their trousers.

“We could sit on our cloaks,” J’pei suggested, an idea that earned him a brief trip up the stands and back to get them. Namith grumbled when Ch’joh stood up too, until they both sat back down, cuddled up with each other and her. One wing extended loosely over their heads, morning sunlight coming through the high entrances painting them green.

Neither of them spoke for awhile, enjoying the quiet and the warmth. J’pei ran his fingers through Ch’joh’s hair, like he had last night, marvelling at how something hacked off so awkwardly with Ch’joh’s belt-knife could feel so soft. Ch’joh reached over to take J’pei’s free hand, stroking his thumb over the knuckles. J’pei’s thoughts slowly drifted back to their conversation in the drop-cave.

“You said…” J’pei took a deep breath, fingers ceasing their combing. “You have lots of ideas. Of what you want.”

“Yeah?” Ch’joh turned a little to look at him. “Yeah. Lots. I’m brilliant and creative, got enough ideas to scandalize both moons and the whole ocean too.”

“What if I...can’t?”

“I don’t wanna do anything you don’t want to,” Ch’joh said quickly. “Ever. Okay?”

“No, I mean…” J’pei squeezed Ch’joh’s hand, trying to find the words. “It’s not. I mean. I _want_ things. With you.” The memory of waking up after Surugath’s flight, the growing realization of how completely _gone_ his self control had been, made his stomach churn. His arm tightened around Ch’joh’s shoulders reflexively; he made himself loosen his hold.

“Hey, no, don’t let go,” Ch’joh said, turning even more. His own arm around J’pei’s back wiggled, working further around to pull him even closer. “Talk to me.”

“I want to do things but I don’t think I _can,”_ J’pei said. He went on hurriedly, before he could lose his nerve. “It’s not, not the mechanics, I grew up in the Weyr, I know how things work, I can figure them out. It’s— I’m—”

“Breathe,” Ch’joh said. “No rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m scared,” J’pei whispered.

“No fucking shit,” Ch’joh said, then winced. “Ah fuck, sorry, I’ve got no fucking tact.” He thumped his forehead against J’pei’s chest, and his next words came out muffled. “Tell me what you’re scared of?”

“Everything,” J’pei said. Ch’joh hissed. “Being out of control. And just. Everything.”

“Okay,” Ch’joh said. He looked up and took a deep breath. J’pei held his own. “I’ve done fast. So let’s do slow. Okay? Slow as molasses. And if slow winds up meaning never…” He squeezed J’pei’s hand. “That’s fine with me.”

J’pei let out the breath he was holding. “Okay.”

~

Reeth and Namith laid their double clutch at the same time as each other, over a week after Turn’s End, about three dragonlengths away from Orpith and Surugath’s. C’gan gave all the weyrlings the day off training, shaking his head and muttering something J’pei couldn’t quite make out about drowning his troubles with a harper.

It was, coincidentally, a day off from both patrolling and Games practice for F’lar’s wing, which made blue Zosth the first and only mate to have anything to do with the proceedings. He perched on one of the ledges, crooning supportively, and bugled every time Reeth laid an egg. L’rad himself sat on the stands chatting with Om'riel.

J’pei stood just inside the entrance to the Hatching Ground, talking quietly with most of the Green Circle and an older bluerider who cagily sidestepped the question of whether he was part of a parallel Blue Circle, or if such a thing even existed.

The “fostering expansion”, as R’gul was calling it instead of “Search”, would start tomorrow. Maybe even today. After the riders had said they knew where to look, knew of dozens of kids with dragonsense, the Weyrleader had snapped that they ought to be able to bring them back quickly and efficiently, and refused to give them more than two days off their regular duties for the retrieval. Ch’joh had a lot of strong opinions about the fostering expansion. Ch’joh was also chewing his knuckles, jumping every time Namith so much as twitched, and repeatedly asking J’pei if this was how Surugath’s had gone.

“You’re starting with the Faxlands?” J’pei checked, watching Ch’joh dart across the hot sands to stroke Namith’s snout anxiously.

M’kel nodded. “Then the Tillek peninsula.”

“And everything south of Fax on the Western Claw,” greenrider V’kra said. J’pei had only ever seen him at a single greenrider gathering. A memorable one, though. V’kra had sung a companion ballad to _Moreta’s Ride,_ about a green and bluerider from different Weyrs transporting the vital medicines through the plague, disobeying their Weyrleaders’ orders to do so. 

“Treating his eastern border same as the rest of the Midlands and Eastern Claw,” Sh’gam, the bluerider, said. “They’re not reliant on boats to get away, if he expands again.”

Ch’joh scratched Namith’s head-knobs. She nattered, J’pei felt a pulse of irritation from her, and Ch’joh hastily backed away.

“Offering to foster younger brothers too,” V’kra added. “And offering the rest of the family a lift somewhere, if they want, like you asked.”

“But only holds and halls we _know_ have a boy with dragonsense,” Sh’gam said. He held up a hand when J’pei opened his mouth to object to that limitation. “The wingleaders have chosen to ignore how we’ve kept up the network of potential candidates despite the Western Claw being off limits. We’re not pushing it by telling the watch pair we’re visiting three holds, and then really meandering through a dozen.”

Ch’joh rejoined them and pressed his forehead against J’pei’s shoulder to whine. “She thinks I don’t think she knows what she’s doing.” J’pei snorted. “Well I _don’t_ think she does, none of us do!”

“She picked a spot far enough away that her clutch will be safe during the first Hatching,” J’pei pointed out.

“No, Reeth picked it,” Ch’joh said. He lifted his head and looked at the assembled older riders. “Hey, you’re gonna offer to relocate families in the Faxlands whether _or not_ they send their sons with us, right? Since you’re already out there?”

“Your friend already asked that,” Sh’gam said. “And yes.”

“Boyfriend,” Ch’joh corrected casually. J’pei’s heart fluttered at the affectionate holder term. It was nice, not having to worry about whether or not _weyrmate_ applied when neither of them had a weyr yet, and it felt so much less implicative than _lover._ “You gonna remember to make it clear to the kids their families’ safety isn’t _reliant_ on them accepting the offer to foster? And offer all the new candidates the chance to just get dropped at a Craft Hall instead, if they want, right?”

M’kel nodded thoughtfully through all these questions. Everyone else looked surprised.

 _“And_ if they get here and it turns out they don’t know _anything_ about what being a dragonrider _really_ involves, and don’t like what they learn, you’ll take them wherever they want before the Hatching?”

“We’re collecting candidates, not running a runnerbeast service—” Sh’gam started to say. Then Namith squeaked, and Ch’joh ran back out to her. M’kel laughed quietly, D’rees more loudly.

“We do that for fosterlings,” J’pei reminded them.

“Usually only once they age out,” D’rees said speculatively. He drummed his fingers on his chin. “Younger than that too, I know, when they don’t adapt, but there's usually _more_ than a sevenday for that to happen, not _less_ than one.”

“We’re not rescuing kids from Fax just to force them into candidacy,” J’pei said firmly. “If someone gets all the way to the sands only to decide it’s not for them and run before Impressing, I’ll clear their path myself.”

That got a beat of stunned silence.

“Everyone wants to be a dragonrider,” Sh’gam said.

“Kenta didn’t,” J’pei said, looking him in the eye.

“It’s not your call,” M’kel said gently, a hint of wariness to his voice. “The Weyrleader is in charge of supplying candidates, and the Headwoman in charge of fosterlings.”

“Clutch parents have veto power,” J’pei said. “It’s in the archives.” He turned away to watch Ch’joh stroking Namith’s neck as she laid the next egg. “Has anyone reminded the Weyrleader that taking fosterlings _encourages_ tithing? When smallholders know they're feeding and clothing their own kin, or their neighbors’ kin?”

“Manora’s brought it up a few times,” D’rees said. “Not sure if that’s helped or hurt, though, the mood the bastard’s in.”

“That’s no way to talk about your Weyrleader,” Sh’gam said, with all apparent sincerity, and scowled at D’rees.

“The Weyrleader is a _complete_ bastard,” D’ree said, scowling right back. “And he can suck my—”

“The Headwoman say anything about girls Standing?” J’pei cut in.

“Not a word,” V’kra said with a shake of his head. “Not even when anyone asks. Just tells them to get back to whatever they’re doing. She _is_ digging as many candidates robes as possible out of storage.”

Another wave of irritation rolled over from Namith; Ch’joh threw his hands up in the air.

“That doesn’t mean much,” Sh’gam said. “We need enough candidates for almost three dozen hatchlings, most likely, and we’ll need at _least_ that many fostered ones to be on the safe side, with how few weyrbred boys of age we have left.”

“You know what does mean something, though?” D’rees said with a grin.

“What?” M’kel asked.

“Namith’s mad at me for Aldamth not being here,” Ch’joh said, stomping over with his arms crossed over his chest. “Do any of you know how to explain to your dragon that we don’t have any control over patrol schedules? She knows Aldamth is in Lozoth’s wing, but not why that means K’ban would have to give D’nis time off for Aldamth to be here right now.”

“Sorry,” M’kel said sympathetically. “I still haven’t managed to explain that one to Daleth.”

“You _know_ what _does_ mean something?” D’rees repeated. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Manora’s gone and told all the women and weyrbrats under twenty-five that they’re excused from helping with the Hatching Feasts, and can spend the day as they please. Because the rationing means they’ll just be like the Turn’s End Middle Day Feast was, you know, just a regular meal but twice as many people with no one out on patrol, and we’re using the worst of the wines for making toasts instead of the good stuff.”

“Spend it as they like?” J’pei repeated, imagining his sisters and friends lined up along the bottom-most seats of the stands, on edge, in the closest clothes to candidate robes they could find. Stands Impressions were rare, but…

“Under twenty- _five?”_ Ch’joh asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Gold candidates have a higher upper limit,” V’kra explained.

“I’ve never been sure if it’s twenty-five for golds,” D’rees said, waving one hand. “Or thirty, or twenty-seven, or if there just isn't a limit but nobody on Search bothers choosing women who’ve got a husband and babies already. Which is stupid, someone who’s raised babies is going to be aces at taking care of a hatchling.”

“We’re not Searching gold candidates,” Sh’gam said dryly.

“Nooo,” D’rees said, drawing the word out, like he thought Sh’gam was being dense. He held his hands out palm-up and drew them apart. “But is ‘allowed to Stand past twenty’ a _gold_ thing or a _girl_ thing?”

“Glad to hear the Headwoman’s doing that for them,” Ch’joh said. Namith warbled plaintively. Ch’joh ran back to her.

“Bit of a whiner, isn’t she?” Sh’gam said, looking over at the two clutching greens.

“Let’s see _you_ stay silent while laying eggs, then,” J’pei said sharply. Surugath huffed. Sh’gam held his hands up defensively, and rolled his eyes. A thoughtful silence fell for a minute.

“I think that about wraps up what we’re doing this week,” M’kel said. He patted J’pei on the shoulder, and the older riders all left. J’pei watched until they were all gone, glanced up to make sure Om'riel and L’rad were still in the right spot to keep an eye on the entrance, and trudged out to Ch’joh.

“So, uh,” Ch’joh said, shifting from foot to foot to keep the sands from burning too much. “How’d they take the whole, you know, insistence that we help people escape the Faxlands whether they become candidates or not?”

“Like you predicted,” J’pei said.

“I’m still shocked your father hasn’t ordered them to only Search the Midlands and Eastern Claw.”

“And risk more mass disobedience?” J’pei shook his head. “I think he knows more about what we did after Ruatha than he lets on.” P’trikor had not been _subtle_ in distracting the wingleaders after they refused to help.

“And everything with _us,”_ Ch’joh said.

“And that,” J’pei agreed, resisting the urge to touch his finally-healed shoulder.

“Thanks for having my back on that,” Ch’joh said. J’pei took his hand and squeezed it. Ch’joh smiled at him. “You know I got yours too, right?”

J’pei almost hummed a simple affirmative _mm_ out of habit, meant to reassure, not truly answer. He swallowed the sound, and took a breath. “I do now.”

“Good,” Ch’joh said firmly. He blew out a huff of air. “Probably not more than a sevenday now. Excited?”

The _mm_ came out before he could stop it this time. J’pei turned to look over at Surugath and Orpith, both dwarfed by Nemorth behind them. He was excited. Just not only that. “A little scared.” He could barely remember the last time he’d been a spectator at a Hatching, not a candidate.

“It’ll be fine,” Ch’joh said. He kissed J’pei on the cheek. “They’ll have loads of candidates, and the best mamas a hatchling could ask for.” He jerked his chin towards Surugath and Orpith, then to Nemorth beyond them. “And an experienced grandmama!”

“Thanks,” J’pei said. He kissed Ch’joh’s cheek too, soft and quick, marvelling that he got to _do_ that now.

Ch’joh broke into a sunny smile. “Do that again.” So J’pei did. Ch’joh’s thumb stroked back and forth over his knuckles. “I know I told you you’re the best person ever and incredibly amazing, but did I remember to tell you you’re cute as hell?” J’pei blushed and had to look away, unused to the things his face was doing. Ch’joh snickered, and somehow it was an _affectionate_ snicker. “You are!”

“Well, you’re…” J’pei struggled to find the right words. None of them fit, so he just squeezed Ch’joh’s hand again. Ch’joh stepped forward to pet Namith’s snout for a moment, not letting go, then led them off the sands before their feet could burn.

Ch’joh was right. His hatchlings _did_ have the best mothers, and a grandmother, which was something Surugath had never had. And they had him, and he had _Ch’joh._

As long as they all had each other, everything would be okay.

~

Ch’joh was pretty sure Namith laid seven eggs, and Reeth five, but since they did it at the same time and so close together no one could say with any confidence. The dragons themselves weren’t fussed about keeping track; when Ch’joh asked Namith, she just hummed smugly at him.

“It’s a lot less than Surugath laid,” Ch’joh told J’pei, chewing on his knuckles after counting them for the fifth time that day. “She made ten, that’s two less than Nemorth’s last clutch, the one everyone whined was too small. Did we not feed them enough?” Orpith had laid six though, so maybe this was normal. Maybe Surugath being so big for a green gave her more room to grow them, or something.

“She had a longer flight than the others,” J’pei pointed out. He already had his arm around Ch’joh’s shoulders, and started stroking his hand up and down his arm soothingly.

“Wait, you’re telling me that really makes a difference?” Ch’joh asked, looking between his dragon and his boyfriend. Namith’s flight hadn’t exactly been short, but then again, nobody had discouraged her suitors during the chase, not like she’d discouraged Surugath’s. She _liked_ Aldamth. “I thought that was just...you know, some crap people made up to bother the Weyrwoman about, or make Hath sound less capable than...what was his name, Simanth? F’lon’s bronze.”

“Simanith.”

“Yeah, him.”

J’pei shrugged slightly. “J’ash’s logs noted a few very short flights with few eggs and long ones with a lot, but no one was bothering to time all of them.”

Shells, J’pei had already _told_ him that, and here he went forgetting, driven just as featherheaded by Namith’s excitement as he was always accused of being. Ch'joh shook himself a little. “They didn’t bother tracking it because they already assumed it was true, right?” he guessed. “They didn’t think to try proving or disproving it, even though letting the greens clutch meant they had a _lot_ more clutches, a lot closer together, than they normally would.” J’pei nodded, and Ch’joh sighed. “I hope everyone likes the courier part of your Craft Hall idea, because I gotta tell you, dragonriders would make _crap_ farmers or beastherders.”

J’pei laughed. Ch’joh wanted to kiss him and spend a few hours basking in Namith’s pride and J’pei’s affection, but then his stomach rumbled. Ch’joh sighed as J’pei laughed more, and grabbed his hand to head off to the dining cavern. All the fosterlings were here now, in what had to be the fastest Search in Benden’s history, and both greenriders wanted to keep an eye on them, talk to them, be approachable. Making themselves visible at mealtimes was the best way.

The Lower Caverns buzzed riotously with the influx of newly fostered children and teenagers. They clustered together, mostly by age or home region, gravitating towards other candidates with similar accents or who were simply close to them in height. It made Ch’joh feel strange; he’d arrived by himself, standing out, unable to blend in no matter how fast he tried to learn Weyr norms. All of these kids were as confused by the Weyr as he’d been, but none of them were alone.

 _You’re not alone,_ Namith said, confused.

 _Not anymore,_ Ch’joh said, sending her a wave of love, and holding J’pei’s hand more tightly. At another table he spotted a weyrbred kid and his fosterling friend (who’d been at Benden even longer then Ch’joh) inserting themselves into a group of new arrivals their own age. That’d been happening since the first batch of candidates slid down off the backs of the dragons to bring them. The weyrbrats were delighted by the chance to make new friends, self-importantly show off all their own knowledge, and ask loads of questions about life outside the Weyr. It reminded him of Esme.

Ch’joh, J’pei, and a lot of other riders were taking the time to tell the kids about dragonriding in particular, leaving aside the rest of weyrlife. They didn’t have months or Turns to get used to it, to be eased into the reality of it like the kids who grew up here did. Ch’joh worried they weren’t explaining it well enough; how _could_ they understand what they were getting into, without experiencing it? Ch’joh had learned every ballad about dragons he could, before even getting here, and then made D’nis explain all the things the Lower Caverns workers brushed off with nudges and winks. He still hadn’t _understood,_ not until he had Namith in his head and his heart, suffused through every piece of him.

Shards, how many of these kids were even going to Impress? How many would just stay on as fosterlings? Clutches of ten, six, seven, five eggs, that made for twenty-eight new hatchlings, less than they’d been expecting, but still more than Nemorth had ever produced at once. Well, probably twenty-eight. Weyrleader J’ash’s logs had mentioned the green-laid clutches had a higher rate of unhatched eggs than the gold-laid ones. J’pei had mentioned it reluctantly, clearly unhappy about it, but he’d dutifully told Ch’joh back when he was asking about every single scrap of information they had.

“Hey, um,” a kid said, tugging Ch’joh’s tunic as he and J’pei wove through tables. They stopped, and since the kid beckoned him closer after looking around nervously, Ch’joh let go of J’pei’s hand to crouch down and let the new fosterling whisper in his ear. “The dragons don’t eat people, right?”

“Right,” Ch’joh said back. _Oh, I’ve heard all the lies about weyrlife,_ he’d once said airily a lifetime ago. _If you don’t appease the dragons they eat you._

“Even if I mess up and step out of the circle and don’t Impress, they won’t eat me? Yatin said Holmishen was lying to keep me in the circle.”

“Dragons don’t eat people,” Ch’joh said firmly.

“Holmishen said last time somebody got slashed up and bled everywhere,” the fosterling said, his fingers curling tighter around the hem of Ch’joh’s tunic. “And Yatin said that _was_ true, but not the way Holmishen was telling it?”

Be honest, they’d all agreed. Tell the candidates what they need to know to make their own choices. And while that mostly meant what life as a dragonrider was like, Standing itself wasn’t exactly risk free. “The hatchlings are clumsy and might hurt you on accident,” Ch’joh said carefully. Honesty didn’t mean _scaring_ the kid. “Like when you step on a feline’s tail; you don’t mean to, but it still hurts.” Ch’joh tugged J’pei, who’d been politely pretending not to listen since the kid was acting so secretive, to crouch down too. “Show’m your arm.”

J’pei rolled up his sleeve to reveal the scars on his bicep, and the fosterling’s eyes got really big. “Did that hurt?”

“Yes,” J’pei said matter-of-factly. “And I had to stay on the sands in the circle until all the hatchlings Impressed. But once that was done I got stitches and numbweed, and now it doesn’t bother me at all.”

“Yours aren’t from dragons,” the fosterling said, touching his own face while looking at Ch’joh’s most obvious scar. “I heard those twins telling my brother yours are from farmholders and Fax’s guards, like his are.”

“That’s right,” Ch’joh said, his stomach twisting up, and his breath catching in his chest. “They’re old. Namith didn’t give me any new ones.”

“We don’t have to go back, right?” the fosterling whispered, even more quietly than he’d whispered about dragons eating people. “No matter what?”

“No matter what,” Ch’joh said. J’pei laced their fingers together, and Ch’joh was able to breath again. “You don’t have to go back.”

“Okay.” The kid smiled. “Thanks!” He turned back to his lunch, and as Ch’joh stood back up, pocketed a breadroll.

“You okay?” J’pei whispered, as they made their way to another table where Om’riel was waving to get their attention.

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said. And he was; he had Namith, and J’pei, and he _didn’t_ have to go back. And he could make sure none of these kids ever had to either. He could help now. “I think I really am.”

~

The days between the unofficial Search and the first Hatching passed like a tumble down a cliff, disjointed and too fast to think about hitting the bottom. Ch’joh took all the time he could get in the Hatching Ground, soaking in the sight of the clutches and his dragon to ground himself. Now all the eggs were laid, Nemorth stretched at her full length between them and the main entrance, instead of curled around one clutch. Retired dragons still blocked the side entrance, and sunned in the upper ones so nobody could think to fly in _behind_ Nemorth.

All of the clutching greens were happily excited most of the time, but with some flare-ups of anxiety. None of them had done this before. All the older dragons had witnessed Hatchings and so could reassure them that everything would be fine, but hadn’t really been involved enough to say what fine _meant._ The young greens barely remembered their own, the moment of Impression and their extreme hunger overwhelming all the other memories of that day. Nemorth, fortunately, could and did patiently explain over and over what was going to happen.

Namith’s excitement and agitation constantly leaked into Ch’joh, making him antsy even though he _knew_ everything would be fine. They had plenty of candidates, even with some of them leaving; none of the hatchlings would end up alone. It would be chaotic and maybe bloody, but nobody was going to die. It would be _fine._

“Ugh, I’m more nervous than when _we_ were candidates,” Ch’joh said, leaning against J’pei’s side as they left to get lunch. They likely wouldn’t be back until after dinner; Rishall had asked for help separating herdbeasts to butcher soon from the ones to hunt. “It’s not even Namith’s clutch that’s ready to hatch! How are you so calm?”

“I am a turbulent ocean of nerves,” J’pei said, deadpan. He wrapped his arm around Ch’joh’s shoulders, and then kissed his temple. Firmer than last week; every day, J’pei’s affectionate kisses grew less tentative, unsure of their reception, and more confident. He sighed. “I’m not calm. I’m just tired.”

“Take a nap,” Ch’joh said. “There’s plenty of farmboys like me to help Rishall herd.”

J’pei didn’t respond to that right away, steps slowing down slightly. Ch’joh kept his mind as open as he could, and felt the whisper of Surugath talking to her rider. J’pei ran his free hand down his face. “Okay. After lunch. I’ll rest.”

“Good,” Ch’joh said firmly. This was happening more too; J’pei accepting the help Ch’joh offered, acting on the urgings to take care of himself, to not grind himself to the bone for everyone else.

Ch’joh stopped walking, twisted around, and wrapped his arms around J’pei’s neck to kiss him full on. He half expected J’pei to freeze, even less sure of this kind of affection than the lighter kisses, but instead he instantly melted in Ch’joh’s arms. Which was. Well.

Pretty damn gratifying.

Esme spotted them walking into lunch with their arms wrapped around each other and waved. When J’pei kissed Ch’joh again, she grinned; it had turned out that she’d been assuming they were already together for months, and just never said anything because she “didn’t want to spook J’pei out of something so nice.” Gullers, on the other hand, had known about Ch’joh’s crush thanks to Rishall, speculated J’pei might have one back, and immediately decided it was her job as J’pei’s older sister to let them both flail through it on their own.

So much for being subtle.

“Don’t panic,” Esme said as they sat down with their food. “But we lost another three candidates to the lure of the Craft Halls this morning.”

“Just gives you a better shot, doesn’t it?” Ch’joh told her, trying to sound casual. He must’ve succeeded, because her grin grew. Shells, why was he so worried about this? _J’pei_ had been the one worried about hatchlings not Impressing and dying last time. Was it because they were _their_ hatchlings, now? Or because he’d Impressed and knew how intense the bond was? Knew down to his bones how much Namith needed him to anchor her to the world? He yanked himself back to the present. “Did your dad notice?”

R’gul didn’t approve of anything to do with the greenclutches, and had begrudged every single thing they did to prepare, but he hated any other deviance from tradition just as much. Candidates should leave to apprentice _after_ being rejected, not before.

"Nah," Esme said. “M’kel and V’kra are being pretty quiet about those trips, and the watch pairs lately’ve been looking the other way. I only know because M’kel told Manora so she could change up the chore chart.”

“Mm,” Ch’joh said. Headwoman Manora was, in her own way, just as traditional as R’gul. It didn’t matter how soon the Hatching might be, fosterlings got added to the chore rotation, and that was that.

Fuck it, it didn’t matter why he was worried, just that he _was,_ and if he didn’t get ahold of himself soon it would upset Namith. Ch’joh climbed up to sit on the table itself instead of the bench so he could see better, and counted all the candidates in the dining cavern he could. Weyrbred boys, fosterlings, the girls and women who’d be sure to line up at the bottom of the stands, hungry for their chance.

“Something wrong?” J’pei asked.

“I’m just going insane,” Ch’joh said. “Can you count candidates and tell me everything’s okay?” J’pei promptly climbed up onto the table too, drawing disapproving looks from older diners, and counted just loud enough for Ch’joh to hear him. He relaxed a little; the numbers felt more real coming from outside his own head.

“More than enough buffer for the first,” J’pei said, when he’d finished. “If we lose more than a half-dozen between now and the second, we’ll want to Search more.”

Somehow, the admission that they _could_ get low enough to worry made Ch’joh _stop_ worrying. He wrapped his arms around J’pei, pressing his forehead up against his shoulder. “Thanks.”

~

Humming in his bones woke Ch’joh the morning of the Hatching, a split second before J’pei yelled his name. Ch’joh scrambled out of bed, reaching for the boots he’d borrowed from Felena; they were big enough for layers of scrap fabric and spare socks, to insulate his feet from the hot sands. He didn’t need to reach for his day clothes because he’d been sleeping in them since Namith laid her clutch. J’pei and the twins had too.

N’ris and K’tis bolted out the door as Ch’joh finished lacing his boots, leaving the door swinging, letting in cold winter air. He saw J’pei getting up with his own boots unlaced, hands shaking, taking a step towards the door.

“No, sit, I’ll get them,” Ch’joh snapped. Namith and Surugath were both too busy brooding to fly them over, and the other weyrlings weren’t awake enough to give them a lift on their own dragons. Which left hurrying over on foot. On the slushy, frosty, easily-trip-on-able ground. “I’m not letting you fall on your face, there’s time, sit _down.”_ He had to push lightly against J’pei’s chest to _make_ him sit, but at least J’pei just shoved his shaking hands into his hair and kept them out of the way as Ch’joh hurriedly laced his boots. 

“J’pei!” tiny P’gyo yelled, waving one arm from his bundle of blankets. “Onth’ll take you! And Ch’joh too!”

Oh, cool. That was nice of her. So much for needing to run!

“Thank you,” J’pei said. His hands were shaking less. Good. Ch’joh got the last knot tied and pulled J’pei to his feet. “Tell Onth thank you.”

“Mm-hm!” P’gyo said.

“We’ll get everyone else there,” Om'riel said, gesturing between himself and L’mer. Q’resh and the youngest weyrlings were all shaking themselves awake and rubbing their eyes. J’pei waved one hand to show he’d heard, the other clutched tight in Ch’joh’s as they ran out of the barracks. Delicate green Onth landed in the thin snow outside, crooning a harmonizing note to all the humming.

Olivia had cleared J’pei for normal use of his shoulder recently, but Ch’joh boosted him up anyway, keeping to that cautious habit, then swung up behind him. J’pei wrapped his hands around one of Onth’s neck ridges, and Ch’joh wrapped _his_ arms around J’pei. He could feel both of them humming, which was a peculiar sensation. Then he realized he was humming too, and feeling Namith’s throat vibrating with the sound of it all the way at the other end of the Weyr.

Onth swooped in through an upper entrance, and they had a dizzying moment of seeing everything from above. Their own dragons, Nemorth, both clutches, all the humans pouring in from the ground level entrances. Except for Nemorth, all of them looked so _small._

Then Onth landed for a moment, and Ch’joh lent J’pei a hand to dismount without stumbling. Ch’joh himself landed much less gracefully, because Onth was a brat of a dragon who sped things up by shaking herself all over. She launched again before Ch’joh even hit the hot sand.

“Oh that shit _burns,”_ Ch’joh said, smacking sand grains off his face as J’pei helped him up. Onth trilled laughter from an observation ledge. An older green nattered at her, and she crooned contritely before rejoining the welcoming hum.

“Is it soon?” J’pei asked Surugath, stroking her neck anxiously. The first handful of candidates walked in, pace changing from _sure_ to _mincing_ as they hit the sands. Even from here on the ground they looked small, fragile, dwarfed by the crooning dragons filling up the high ledges. Had the candidates for Nemorth’s first clutch looked like this to Jora, decades ago? Had Ch’joh and his clutchmates?

Surugath and Orpith crouched about two dragonlengths from their clutch, one swirling eye each on the eggs, one on the approaching boys. Opposite them, on the far side, Nemorth now lay curled around Namith, Reeth, and _their_ clutch, completely blocking it from sight. Some thought from Surugath brushed across the edge of Ch’joh’s mind. Whatever it was didn’t calm J’pei down at all; his eyes kept darting nervously between the eggs, the approaching candidates, and the viewing stands. 

“It’s okay,” Ch’joh said, squeezing J’pei’s hand. “The humming’s not top pitch, yet. There’s time. And the candidates don’t have nearly as far to come as we did, they’re all dorming in the Lower Caverns.” _Please calm down, everything’s going to be fine._

“Oh,” J’pei said. He took deep breaths, shakes slowly easing. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Ch’joh shaded his eyes with his other hand, peering first up at the ledges, then at the blueriders with numbweed and bandages getting in place around the edges, and then the stands. Distraction, they needed a distraction. “Kershath’s here. Where the hell’s Z'beili? Or...shards, I can never remember who caught Orpith.”

“I can’t either,” J’pei said. Orpith had cared more about all the knots she tied her suitors in than whichever one finally caught her, and N’ris didn’t want to know and feel awkward chancing across them. “But Z'beili’s out butchering herdbeasts. He volunteered.” J’pei smiled at Ch’joh. “A lot of blue and greenriders did, to make sure none of the girls got assigned it and missed this.”

Esme appeared in the entrance as he said that, Gullers and Rishall right behind her, all three wearing undyed muslin tunics and trousers, the closest things they could get to candidate robes. Ch’joh sighed in relief, his own nerves easing; even if, somehow, too many candidates were late or rejected, the girls would be enough. The stands were _full_ of them, he saw now, sisters and cousins of dragonriders and candidates, most of them dressed in undyed or very pale clothes, avoiding scowling older weyrfolk, pretending it was a coincidence they all filled the lowest, most accessible seats. Anjali sat by her mentor Olivia in sun-faded yellow, serenely ignoring her ex-weyrmate’s glare.

They had to be enough.

“Nice,” Ch’joh said, grinning back. He squeezed J’pei’s hand again. “That’s really sweet of— oh _yes_ she did come!” He waved excitedly with his free hand; Jora sat alone at the end of the stands nearest the side entrance. J’pei waved too, briefly lifting his hand from Surugath’s neck. Jora waved back languidly. Ch’joh couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not, at this distance, but she was in her jewel-blue dress and had draped an _enormous_ green sash over her shoulders.

After an eon, which the progress of morning sun on the sands said was less than half an hour, all the candidates circled the eggs, two or three candidates deep in places. There were more teenagers than children, and even a few twenty-Turn-olds, the very oldest allowed. They’d all, by some agreement during their sevenday here, let the weyrbred candidates to the front. _Kind of them,_ Ch’joh thought. He remembered his own worries that Junpei, if he went unImpressed, would be crushed by holdlife.

The stands buzzed with excited and curious weyrfolk. Well. Mostly excited. R’gul, his wingseconds, and several other bronzes and browns sat stone-faced, disapproving. Ch’joh glared at them, and pointedly stepped in between them and J’pei.

Thankfully watching the candidates distracted J’pei from the assholes in the stands. He’d even calmed his outward show of nerves down to the point only Ch’joh could tell it was still there. Yatin waved at them, so they waved back, and Yatin promptly elbowed the kids nearest to him and pointed to them. They must really be doing a good job seeming calm, because the elbowed kids looked at them and visibly relaxed.

N’ris and K’tis, meanwhile, over by Orpith, were bouncing on the balls of their feet chanting “Go, go, go!” to the eggs. All the candidates to look over at _them_ started bouncing on the balls of their feet too, which Ch’joh found adorable.

The humming suddenly reached its highest, loudest pitch.

Two eggs knocked into each other and cracked open at once, spilling green and blue hatchlings onto the sand. They creeled, awful hunger blasting out. Ch’joh’s stomach cramped, and next to him J’pei actually doubled over for a few seconds before forcing himself upright.

The circle of candidates stayed tight, until the blue hatchling wriggled past the first layer to Impress the oldest boy. Then another egg hatched, and another, and the scene turned to the same chaos as every other Hatching before, all the way to Faranth’s First.

~

Pair after pair found each other, joy and love filling the Hatching Ground. J’pei watched it all with his senses nearly doubled, Surugath so loudly proud and joyous, sharing the sights, sounds, and emotions she was taking in with him. _They’re like us,_ Surugath told him wonderingly, memory of their Impression pulled to the fore of her mind.

 _They are,_ J’pei thought back, arm over her neck clinging tight. _They’re going to be amazing._

This was what made everything worth it, every moment of stress and pain the last few months. The flight, the secrecy, standing up to his father and to Hath. These new lives coming into the world, the new bonds between dragon and rider, the lives changed forever. The love Surugath and J’pei had for each other; all of these hatchlings and riders had that too now, would always have it.

Fourteen pairs staggered off the sands together, herded towards the path to the barracks and the butchered meat waiting there. So far, none of the hatchlings had gone past the circle to Impress, finding who they wanted among the official candidates.

The last pair left, and all eyes focused on the final two eggs. All of the others had hatched quickly, the baby dragons stumbling over each other, but these two were taking their time.

...weren’t they?

 _Why aren’t they moving?_ Surugath asked, just as J’pei realized there was something wrong. He took a step toward them, breaking the protocol of clutch parents hanging back to observe, and a sudden, awful silence swept through the Hatching Ground. One of the eggs lay on its side, surrounded by the broken shells of its peers, clearly knocked into. That should have helped even a weak hatchling break through.

“Oh no,” N’ris gasped, as J’pei knelt by the nearest egg. Blood pounded in his ears as he pressed one to the shell. “No, no no no, _please.”_

There was no faint wobble of something trying to hatch, no thrumming heartbeat. Surugath sniffed the other egg, and pressed one of her head-knobs to it. _No one’s in there,_ she said, confused.

 _That happens, sometimes,_ J’pei told her, the instinct to reassure and explain taking over even as he felt himself going numb. He knew this could happen, he just hadn’t...today was supposed to be _good._ They fought so hard and went through so much, they were supposed to have this, this wonderful good amazing clutch hatching, this perfect day where nothing went wrong.

Why didn’t they get to have that?

Why did something always go _wrong?_

 _What did_ I _do wrong?_ J’pei thought, as he stood and trudged numbly to the other egg, to listen to it too, to make _sure._ Was it because they hadn’t warmed the sands before laying? Because the bronzeriders touched them? Trained too hard in the cold? Kept up _between_ practice for too long?

“Hey,” he heard Ch’joh saying distantly, as he listened for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. “I’m really sorry but the Hatching’s over. Go on to the feast, catch up with your friends.”

“They’re stillborn?” one of the candidates asked softly. J’pei sat back on his heels and wrapped his arms around Surugath’s neck as she sniffed the second dead egg.

“Yeah,” Ch’joh said, sorrow and resignation in his voice. “Do me a favor and tell the spectators to clear off too, give the mamas some space.”

Dozens of feet trudged off, and all of a sudden N’ris burst into tears, wailing. J’pei jumped. N’ris knelt on the sand with his arms around the first egg, sobbing, K’tis hugging him and sniffling. “It’s okay,” K’tis said. “N’ris it’s okay, you didn’t mess up.”

“I did!” N’ris yelled, his voice muffled. “I shouldn’t’ve let C’gan make us do that _stupid_ endurance training! I messed up and now Orpith’s eggs don’t ever— don’t ever get to meet their siblings and it’s not _fair!”_

Oh, shells. J’pei let go of Surugath to walk over to the twins. He tried to talk, to reassure N’ris it wasn’t his fault, but his throat was too tight. _Don’t ever get to meet their siblings._ Kenta and Rally were gone, and Esme and Gullers were in the stands, passed by, _barred,_ J’pei had Surugath and he was the _only one_ of his siblings to Impress. He pressed the heels of his palms against his teary eyes, trying to breathe.

Around him, the dragons were calling out soft sounds to each other. N’ris and K’tis were crying, the sobbing wails thankfully down to sniffles and hiccups. Surugath was growing agitated, talking to Nemorth and he didn’t want to let go of anything from her but he _had_ to, had to draw all his senses back into himself, the joy of the Hatching was over and he needed to _think._

J’pei pulled back into himself, in time to hear a pair of feet crunching over the sands, the last bit of his over-extended senses catching a spike of fear and anger from Ch’joh. Fuck.

“Oh, what do _you_ want?” Ch’joh snapped. J’pei walked over to stand next to him, taking more deep breaths.

“Unhatched?” R’gul asked stiffly. He stood too close, looking between the two eggs and their green mothers. He looked as stern as he always did, but J’pei recognized the hint of sadness in his voice.

“Yes,” J’pei said, chin in the air. He couldn’t comfort N’ris like he wanted, but he could stand between him and R’gul, give him space to have all his feelings, while J’pei dealt with everything else. In the distance, Esme and Gullers held each other’s hands, watching, buffeted by the crowd leaving, hesitant to approach. Shards, why couldn't their father just _go away?_

“I’m sorry,” R’gul said, the sadness more than just a hint now. _What?_ When was R’gul ever _sorry?_ “This happens, sometimes.”

The exact same thing J’pei had told Surugath. How _dare_ R’gul say that, as though offering comfort, when he hadn’t even wanted any of these eggs to _exist?_ J’pei _hated_ him.

 _Not all of Nemorth’s clutchmates hatched,_ Surugath said. That would have been the same clutch that R’gul Impressed Hath at. Nemorth began to hum, low and deep, a comfort stronger than words flooding through the Hatching Ground. _She says we didn’t do anything wrong._

_We didn’t?_

Nemorth’s humming grew louder, as though she was trying to make J’pei believe it through sheer will. _We didn’t,_ Surugath repeated. _But the eggs can’t stay._ She brushed her eye ridge gently against J’pei’s cheek, looking past him at the golden queen and the double clutch she protected. _Predators like dead eggs._

The last thing they needed were tunnel snakes getting used to finding a meal on these sands. Surugath’s growing agitation was making his hands shake now; they needed to get the dead eggs out of the nest. Some of the teaching ballads mentioned interring unhatched eggs _between,_ were most dragons and some riders went. That thought felt wrong, somehow, but J’pei didn’t know what else to do with them.

“They’ll be interred _between,”_ R’gul said, echoing J’pei’s thoughts. “It’s tradi—”

“No!” N’ris yelled. He hunched over the egg he held. “No, no! Not the _cold,_ no, no! Not _between!”_ K’tis straightened up, glaring at the Weyrleader, fists bunched at his sides, ready to defend his brother.

“They can’t _stay!”_ R’gul snapped, all his sadness transmuted instantly to anger at this disobedience. “Get up.” He took a menacing step towards the twins. J’pei blocked his path, arms out to keep him from dodging around.

“Give him _time,”_ J’pei said, glaring at his father.

The eggs weren’t going to hatch. There was nothing in them to _protect._ Maybe there never had been. It didn’t matter to the eggs what happened to them now, whether they went _between,_ or were dashed on a rocky beach like wild creature’s nests in a storm, or were buried in the Bowl like some weyrfolk. It wouldn’t make a difference to the eggs if J’pei got his shoulder dislocated again keeping the Weyrleader from disposing of them the exact way all unhatched dragon eggs had been disposed of through the centuries.

But it mattered to N’ris, and keeping the younger greenrider from being hurt by any more of this mattered to J’pei. That would always matter. There would always be someone to protect. And he didn’t stand alone anymore, not like he had before. When he stepped in between R’gul and N’ris, Ch’joh stepped up too.

“Just...a little time,” J’pei said, trying to sound calm, firm, knowing his unceasing tears spoke louder than his voice. “Dad, _please.”_ Behind him, N’ris kept sobbing, “No!”

“There’s no _rush,”_ Ch’joh said, scowling, shoving R’gul back. “You fucking stubborn old—”

Nemorth growled. R’gul jerked, looking over at her, and stopped trying to get around J’pei and Ch’joh.

“Look,” R’gul said, taking a deep breath of his own. “It’s tradition, an honor, and for safety.” It clearly cost him to give an explanation, instead of orders.

J’pei glared, not moving an inch. An honor? For _safety?_ When did R’gul care about anything other than _tradition?_

“We don’t know why they didn’t hatch,” R’gul went on slowly. “They could have something infectious. And they’ll _rot,_ they can’t stay near the other clutch.”

“So _now_ you care about the other clutch?” Ch’joh snarled. J’pei shuddered at the idea of rotting eggs, but didn’t move.

“They’re going _between,”_ R’gul said. Up on the ledge, Hath rumbled ominously.

J’pei braced himself for a mental blast. “I know,” he told R’gul. “I know they can’t stay. I’ll take care of it.” N’ris wailed louder, eerily like the last Hatching, bleeding on the sands trying to find Orpith. _Surugath, tell Orpith we’re not sending them_ between _. Please. I’ll think of something else._

R’gul looked at him, and for a moment, J’pei thought R’gul would trust him to do what was needed, what was proper. Then N’ris abruptly stopped wailing, quieting down to hiccups again. R’gul frowned suspiciously at the change, and drew himself up. _“You’ll_ take care of it? After all the incompetence, irresponsibility, and—”

_“R’gul.”_

The Weyrleader slowly turned around. J’pei finally looked away from him, taking the chance to quickly dry his face. The candidates were gone. The spectators were gone. He couldn’t even see Esme or Gullers. Weyrwoman Jora approached steadily, blue and green and golden, walking sure-footed like the scorching sands were the perfect temperature.

“You’re supposed to be at the feast,” Jora said. “Assuring the rejected candidates of their future chances, and congratulating the new dragonriders as they return.”

“I—”

“That _is_ the Weyrleader’s job,” Jora said, with an air of deliberate boredom. J’pei held his breath. “Regardless of clutch parents. Carola made sure I knew. Did S’loner and C’rob never inform _you?”_

“...this has to be taken care of,” R’gul said, hesitating for the first time. S’loner died as Weyrleader, but ancient C’rob was still around, competing in the Games and reminding everyone he had served as Weyrleader in his younger days, and on _two_ bronze councils after other Weyrleaders’ deaths.

“It will be,” Jora said. She stepped to the side, arm moving like molasses to indicate the distant Hatching Ground entrance. “I’ll catch up to you.”

Any momentous occasion R’gul missed was a chance for his competitors to look good. Was it that, that moved his feet? Or Jora’s reminder of duties? After one last look at the greens and their eggs, R’gul stormed off. No one moved until not only had he passed through the entrance, out of sight, but Hath left as well.

“Thank you,” J’pei told Jora. Ch’joh took his hand again.

She nodded slowly, and tilted her head to the side. “Where _are_ you taking them?”

“Yeah, where?” Esme asked. J’pei spun around; she and Gullers had come around from behind the other clutch, staying out of sight until R’gul left. The rest of their clutchmates followed, and all five members of the Green Circle.

“I...I don’t know,” J’pei admitted, stunned to see all of them.

“We’ll help,” M’kel said. Next to him, P’gyo nodded rapidly, and small blue weyrling T’kash piped up with “Yeah! Where do they need to go?”

N’ris sniffed loudly, wiping his eyes and standing up. “You mean it?”

“Eggs don’t care about tradition,” Gullers said dryly. Tradition had kept her on the sidelines for three Hatchings, and from taking up a real smithing apprenticeship outside the Weyr. Kept her both from dragonriding and from escaping the constant reminder of what she couldn’t have. She caught J’pei’s eye and smiled, tired. “Why should we?”

“Warm,” N’ris said. He sniffed again, then looked at J’pei. “Right? They should stay warm.”

J’pei nodded, throat tight, eyes wet. Everyone stood ready to help, ready to listen. Surugath trilled, and all the dragons present trilled back.

“They’re too big for baskets,” Esme said. J’pei knew she was just as furious as Gullers at being barred from candidacy, just as upset, and that she hated even more being slowed down by anything, let alone her own feelings. There was a problem in front of her, not a mechanical one like Gullers would tackle but a question of supplies, and she was going to solve it. “You need something to carry them. I’ll nab you some sacks and cloaks, stay here!” She ran off, half the weyrlings running with her.

“Warm, warm,” M’kel muttered, fingers drumming on his cheek thoughtfully. He looked at the rest of the Circle. “The other Weyrs are right out, same problem as staying here. Warm and sandy, or just warm?”

“Dry,” J’pei managed to get out. The thought of dragon eggs rotting in a hot, wet jungle made him feel sick. Ch’joh noticed him shudder, and wrapped his arm around J’pei’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“I want to remember,” N’ris said. “There’s lots of warm beaches but they’re so _long_ and _samey._ I want to remember where we take them.” He looked at K’tis. “So we can...we can show Tolley and Tollara, later.”

“Igen!” K’tis said loudly. N’ris jumped. K’tis grabbed both his hands. “Igen’s got all those weird rock formations, that’s why C’gan started us there, after Benden! It’s easy to picture and remember!”

“And they’re in the hot, dry part of Igen,” M’kel said approvingly.

“Thank you, K’tis,” J’pei said. N’ris laughed, relieved, his twin’s enthusiasm infectious.

 _I like Igen,_ Surugath said. Orpith crooned. Then both dragons started digging the sand away from the dead eggs, leaving them clear. A great deal of noise came from the three dragons brooding the second clutch. A moment later Namith and Reeth climbed over Nemorth to join everyone else.

 _Nemorth’s guarding,_ Namith said. She licked Surugath’s snout. _We’re coming too._

Esme and the others returned at a run, with two firestone sacks jammed full of fur-lined winter cloaks, and a shovel. J’pei and Ch’joh held one sack open on its side, the twins the other, so Surugath and Orpith could nudge the eggs inside. Both dragons sighed all over and radiated relief the instant the eggs vanished from sight. So did Namith and Reeth. Sending them _between_ may have felt wrong, but removing them from the nest was clearly the right thing to do.

Securing the eggs took focus, and so did arranging themselves to fly. Too much focus for J’pei to let the growing grief hold his mind for now.

“I’ve already told the watch pair that we’re going,” M’kel said, as all the dragons lined up in a wing formation. “R’len’s promised Lamath won’t tell Hath when we leave or return. Make it easier to pretend we’re doing as told.”

“I don’t care if he knows what we’re doing,” J’pei said. Gullers, already sitting on Surugath above him, muttered, “Yeah,” under her breath. “Just don’t tell him _where_ we go.” His hand tightened on the riding strap, ready to pull himself up. “He’s not disturbing these eggs. _Ever.”_

M’kel nodded. J’pei hauled himself up, checking Gullers’ safety straps before his own. He looked behind them; eleven young dragons and five older ones waited patiently in a wing formation, their riders (and Esme) checking riding straps. Jora leaned against Nemorth, a gleaming guardian, watching them all.

J’pei didn’t even need to remember his weyrling lessons for the arm signals, every single one ingrained in his mind from a lifetime of watching wings take off in the Bowl. Check that the wing is ready. Affirmative. Ready, wings out. _Launch._

Surugath shoved her legs against the sand, flapping hard to get aloft. She made for the largest high tunnel, so wide even Nemorth could have flown without brushing the sides. Through her, J’pei felt all the dragons behind them, knowing their positions as surely as that of his own hands and feet.

They hovered for a moment in the cold winter air, high above Benden Weyr, the hatchlings specks of green, blue, and brown against the snow next to the bright red splashes of their first meal. The sight eased something in his chest; yes, something always went wrong. But things went _right,_ too. They had two dead eggs to bury, to tuck away in different sands, and they had fourteen new pairs of dragons and riders, safe in the caldera, getting to know each other, taking care of each other.

J’pei signalled to everyone, starting the countdown, holding the image of the most distinct rock formation in Igen in his mind’s eye. They went _between,_ and came out three seconds later in a hot, sunny sky. They spiralled down, to the base of the rocks.

The dragons set the eggs down gently, and everyone circled them, suddenly unsure of themselves again now they were actually doing this. J’pei silently took the shovel, hoping he wasn’t going to start crying too hard to see what he was doing.

“Hey,” Ch’joh said, placing his hand on J’pei’s shoulder. “Let me help.”

J’pei looked at him for a moment, hesitating. His shoulder was fine, pulling himself up onto Surugath hadn’t even made it twinge. He’d started this, said he’d take care of everything, led them all out of the Weyr. He should do this.

Ch’joh’s hand slid down J’pei’s arm to rest on his grip on the shovel. “If you need to dig right now, I get it,” Ch’joh said, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “Whatever you need. I’m here for you.”

J’pei took a shaking breath. He nodded, eyes closing briefly, and handed Ch’joh the shovel.

The ground broke with a solid crunch and scraped against the shovel blade. Ch’joh turned the smooth dusty surface into a small, jagged hole. Then Gullers held out her hand, beckoning, and Ch’joh handed the shovel to her. A few more passes through the dirt, and it went to M’kel. Everyone took turns digging, even the dragons, though the youngest weyrlings mostly cleared sand and soil away, giving everyone else more room.

Once the holdbred riders declared the hole deep enough, the dragons all solemnly listened to the eggs one final time.

“You’re good eggs,” N’ris said, patting them each gently, before stepping back and letting Orpith roll them into the shared grave. “I’m sorry we don’t get to meet you. I’m sorry your siblings don’t get to meet you.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then turned to bury his face against his brother’s shoulder. K’tis hugged him, wiping at his own eyes too.

Surugath sniffed the eggs and nudged the hot earth back over them, the way Namith had buried Ch’joh’s milkteeth.

J’pei watched everything silently, watering eyes making everything hazier than the heat was. He couldn’t find the right words. His voice wasn’t working anyway. He stood under the blazing Igen sun, watching the eggs rejoin the earth, just like he’d stood under Nerat’s rain to watch his grandfather rejoin the sea.

No.

Not just like that.

That day he’d been surrounded by B’sur’s friends, old wingmates and retired riders who knew the bluerider, but didn’t know young grieving Junpei. Now he stood with his sisters, and Ch’joh, with clutchmates he’d trained alongside all Turn and older riders who cared about them.

 _And me,_ Surugath said.

 _And you,_ J’pei said. His dragon, his heart. He wrapped an arm over her neck, reaching out blindly for Ch’joh, and stopped fighting the tears. Ch’joh squeezed his hand tight, then wrapped an arm around him again. Namith took over filling the grave, and then the dull shovel blade came back into sight, smoothing the sand and soil in place.

“Sometimes,” Gullers said, clearing her throat. J’pei looked up. Gullers stood with her hands braced on the shovel handle, watching him. “Sometimes really terrible things happen and you carry it with you forever.”

There wasn’t any sand or blood in his mouth, but J’pei could taste it all the same.

Gullers sniffed, blinking hard, and Esme put a hand over Gullers’ on the shovel. “You don’t forget it,” Gullers said. “And you don’t let it go, but you don’t carry it alone.” She jerked her head at J’pei, then around at everyone else too. “Okay? You’re not carrying it alone.”

“None of us are carrying it alone,” Ch’joh said, arm tightening around J’pei.

“Okay,” J’pei mouthed silently, nodding to his sisters. All around him, voices murmured the same words, _not alone, okay, we’ll carry it._ He half turned, holding Ch’joh close, and shared the weight.


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spring

Early morning spring sunlight poured through the unshuttered barracks windows. J’pei hurriedly laced up his boots, feeling Surugath and Namith excitedly chatting with each other at the back of his mind. He’d only gotten halfway done when he realized his hair had come loose in the night, and he wouldn’t have time rebraid it  _ and _ fasten all his riding gear before they needed to go. His hair never stayed in the leather helm if he left it loose, it slid down into his face. Could he get away with leaving his boots half-laced and jacket open?

“Let me help,” Ch’joh said, before J’pei even finished the thought. Ch’joh was already dressed, a pouch smelling of fresh cheeserolls tied to his belt. J’pei nodded, and Ch’joh knelt on the bed behind him. “I’m getting a lot better at this,” Ch’joh said, a grin in his voice, as his fingers flew through J’pei’s hair, while J’pei’s own did up his riding gear. “Someday I’ll even be able to go fast  _ and _ make it look good!”

J’pei snorted. Then Ch’joh twisted the braid up in an unpinned bun and wedged the helm over it, just as J’pei reached the top of his jacket, fingers transitioning from collar to helm-strap without pause, and they were out the door and on their dragons just in time to rise with the shrieking flock.

_ Stay low over your dragon’s neck, _ L’deni had said.  _ Stick with the group until at least one green splits off, then head for clouds or another mountain’s peak. _

Surugath flew out of sight of the watch pair, and out of the way of the mating flight. She hovered on a thermal. Namith had veered off in a different direction, but they didn't need to leave together. They’d planned this. They all knew where they were going. J’pei closed his eyes, visualizing Boll Hold just like they’d done in training.

Surugath took them  _ between. _

They came out in the sun’s first blinding rays; the morning had been further along in Benden than it was here on the southernmost tip of the Western Claw. Namith and Ch’joh appeared half a minute later. Together, they soared away from the Hold, to the nearby Weaver Crafthall, and alighted in the courtyard.

Like Boll Hold, the Weaver Crafthall was set into the cliff. It faced south instead of southeast, and was decked out in heavy metal shutters (rolled up, now) that could keep out both turbulent storms and Thread. Unlike the Hold, the Weavers had not carved normal windows in their outermost layer. Instead the entire front was a series of terraces, large enough for vast looms, with the typical windows barely visible behind them.

The courtyard was only empty directly in front of the Hall, with just enough space for the two green dragons to land and their riders to dismount. J’pei pulled off his helm and waved to the weavers gawking at them from the terraces, as Ch’joh turned around for a better look at everything  _ else _ in the courtyard. J’pei wanted to turn around too; they’d flown in over artistically arranged clusters of giant clay pots, all of them easily three to five times the size of the biggest kitchen cauldron, brimming with trees and flowering shrubs. Two of them even had a trellis of trailing vines erected between them. But he couldn’t take his eyes away from the terraces.

“Good morning!” J’pei called out, hands cupped to send his voice further. Ch’joh had already told him Boll used Tillek hand sign, not Telgar, and at this distance with the sun at such a sharp angle anything he might say that way would be near impossible to read. “Might we—”

_ Ask after two weavers, _ J’pei would have continued, but someone behind a loom shrieked  _ “Kenta?” _ followed by the clatter of a stool, and a tall young woman racing up to the safety rail. “How in Faranth’s name did you get back so fast from— you’re not Journeyman Kenta.”

“No,” J’pei said, dazed. She’d thought that from his voice? He...he sounded like his mat-brother? Ch’joh had turned back around and was snickering at him. Or at the weaver. Probably both of them.

“You sound just like him,” the woman said, sounding a little dazed herself. She shielded her eyes while peering over the railing. All the other weavers (who weren’t already doing so for a better look at the dragons) did too. “Can’t tell if you look just like him too, dragonrider. I’d ask if you were one of those sailor cousins of his except, well,  _ dragon.” _

An even younger weaver started jumping up and down, making their rank knots bounce on the shoulder of their tunic. “Pallavi! It’s the other one! It’s got to be the other one!”

“The other  _ what?” _ Pallavi asked.

“Master Reiko’s boys!”

Ch’joh elbowed J’pei. “That answers a few questions.” J’pei gulped, nodding.

Pallavi put her hands on the excited apprentice’s shoulders and turned them around, pushing them towards the inner doors. “Go get her! No, don’t bring her  _ here, _ tell her there’s dragons in the courtyard— no don’t tell her why we need  _ her, _ what if we’re wrong?”

“Um,” J’pei said, because they  _ weren’t _ wrong, but he’d dropped his hands without noticing and he didn’t know what to say anyway.

Yet another weaver leaned over the railing. “A master will be out to speak with you in a moment, dragonriders!” A second apprentice tugged his sleeve and whispered something, and the weaver’s eyes went wide. “Yes, sorry! Do you want klah? Breakfast?”

“We’re fine, thank you!” Ch’joh called up. He patted J’pei’s back, distracted enough too that he smooshed J’pei’s braid a few times; it had fallen out of the bun the instant he peeled off his helm, but the tie at the end held. “What,” Ch’joh laughed, too quietly for the weavers to hear. “You were expecting her to still be a journeywoman?”

“You thought she’d be,” J’pei reminded him, grounded by the teasing just as much as the hand on his back. Surugath sent him a wave of reassurance, tempered by her own curiosity about the potted plants. J’pei reached out instinctively and got a scent of recently watered dirt as she sniffed at the nearest one. “Kenta still is.”

“Bet she breezed right through her apprenticeship,” Ch’joh said. J’pei couldn’t stand waiting so nervously anymore and turned around to watch Surugath investigate the plants. Namith poked her head between two of them and looked like she was trying to stretch her neck as far as possible, the rest of her hampered by narrow space.

“Those pots are at the allowed distance!” said a voice that reached right down into the depths of J’pei’s mind, a side door into the courtyard bursting open. “Check your feet, we marked all the measurements on the flagstones—  _ oh _ you’re greenriders. Thank the First Egg. Good morning!”

J’pei took a deep breath. He should turn around now. He should turn around and say hello and...and…

“Rashad, tell Pallavi she’s  _ got _ to specify color with the dragons, I nearly fainted thinking it was some bronze or brown here to argue about our greenery again.” The excited apprentice said something very quick, too quietly for J’pei to make out. “Well, they used to. Before your time. Right nuisances, very full of themselves. Yes of course you can talk to the dragons, but introduce yourself to their faces, not their tails, no one likes to be startled.” Another quiet question. “Well Pallavi can’t break three planters in one go just from jumping in surprise so that’s allowed.  _ When she’s not carrying dyes. _ Go on, introduce yourself, offer to scratch their head-knobs and they’ll adore you.”

Ch’joh kept his hand on J’pei’s arm through this whole speech. He almost felt ready to turn around by the time Apprentice Rashad pattered the long way around the plants to introduce himself to Namith and Surugath.

“I haven’t seen a starpetal tree with such pink blossoms since I passed through Lemos,” Ch’joh said, hand sliding down to squeeze J’pei’s. Rashad held a hand out for Namith to sniff, wide-eyed. “It’s beautiful. These are all beautiful, even that scrubby little klah that looks bitter as hell.”

“Thank you,” Reiko said, clear pride in her voice. “We have to mix the soil special for it to blossom the right color. And that ‘scrubby little klah’  _ is _ bitter, but it dyes richer than a normal one could even dream of.”

_ “Ah,” _ Ch’joh said, sounding deeply satisfied at the solved mystery. “They’re all dye plants.”

“Yes,” Reiko said. “But we’ve got an entire field and orchard for most of that.  _ These _ are for  _ inspiration.” _ She paused. “And reference. There are too many terrible affronts to nature’s beauty in existing tapestries for me to allow excuses for any more.”

“Smart,” Ch’joh said. He squeezed J’pei’s hand again. “And those pots are brilliant, keeping all the roots from breaking up the courtyard.” J’pei squeezed back, thankful Ch’joh was keeping the conversation going as he collected himself.

_ Turn around. Just turn around. She’s right here. _

“Oh, yes,” Reiko said, and  _ oh _ he knew that tone, that was  _ smug _ pride. “No roots to cross over the line, no violation of the Laws for stuffy, arrogant, busybody wingleaders to take as an excuse to lecture us and char everything.” She paused again. “May I ask what brings you here today?”

_ “Someone _ wanted to see you,” Ch’joh said. “And introduce you to his dragon, but he’s terribly shy and I’m not so if you’d like I can call Namith over from that kid charming her so thoroughly and introduce you to her first.”

_ No, I had dibs! _ Surugath said indignantly, backing away from the plants and wiggling to get herself turned around in the small space. Reiko laughed, not hearing the words but seeing the actions. J’pei snorted, nearly a laugh, startled and fond and...and taking a deep breath, and…

He turned around. 

Reiko froze mid-laugh, eyes going wide. Her dark hair had streaks of silver, not many, but shining like a miniature sunrise over her temples to match the one overhead. She was shorter than him now, she might even be shorter than Esme, and it shouldn’t surprise him but it  _ did. _

“Junpei,” Reiko breathed out. J’pei’s own voice caught in his throat, so he raised one hand and made the first flight-sign to come to mind, the one for a wing greeting a different Weyr’s wing in the air. A second later he nearly fell over as Reiko launched herself across the courtyard into his arms. “It’s  _ you,  _ my Junpei, it really is, I missed you every day, oh I can’t believe you’re  _ here…” _

J’pei hugged her back, every sense overwhelmed by old memories, by the voice and scents and comforting arms from his childhood.

The single greatest constant of Junpei’s life had been that everyone left. Including, he had assumed, himself, one way or another. But what he had learned as J’pei, piece by piece, was that  _ left _ was not  _ lost. _

J’pei started to see it as Surugath raced over the Bowl to tackle his sisters and friends, refusing to let weyrling training keep him from them. Felt the idea growing stronger as Ch’joh came back every single day during that first month brooding over the clutch, seeking J’pei out. And knew it to be a new truth of his world as Ch’joh and J’pei planned this visit together, asking advice from older greenriders, waiting for their chance. An early morning mating flight, on a rest day, with more greens likely to rise in the afternoon or evening. The perfect day to sneak out.

“I’m here,” J’pei said. Ch’joh had stepped back to give him and Reiko space in this moment. Surugath did not, pressing her head against their sides and humming. “I’m here. I came to find you.” He’d known when he’d Impressed Surugath that he’d never be alone again. He just hadn’t known at first what that really meant.

“I’m so proud of you,” Reiko said. She loosened her hold, just enough to lean back and look up at his face. She blinked back tears, smiling. “When did you get so tall?”

J’pei laughed. Reiko hugged him again, quick and fierce, and then stepped back slightly further to look at Surugath. Who had dirt on her snout. “An explorer, just like her rider. Kenta will be so proud.” She let Surugath sniff her, leaving dirt on her knuckles. “What are your names?”

“J’pei.” He stroked Surugath’s nearest eye-ridge. “This is Surugath. She...this was her idea. Coming as soon as we could, not...not asking permission to break the ban.”

“You’re a dragon after my own heart, Surugath,” Reiko said, smile becoming a grin. J’pei felt  _ his _ heart glow with pride at her approval, and his dragon hummed more loudly for a moment.

“That’s Namith over there,” J’pei said, more sure of himself making introductions. Namith was on her back now, safety harness getting dusty, head still between two planter pots, crooning as Apprentice Rashad scratched the underside of her chin. “She contracted Ch’joh’s name herself.”

“My old name was obnoxiously long, according to her,” Ch’joh said dryly.

“Bet I’ve heard longer,” Reiko said.

“Shells, I know I have,” Ch’joh said. “The trees weren’t the only overly flowery things in Lemos.”

Reiko frowned suddenly. “How long do you have now? If you’ve snuck out…”

“Hours,” Ch’joh assured her. “We planned it. And even if we mess up and get caught, well.” He fidgeted nervously. “Obviously meeting the famous Clever Reiko is worth getting in trouble for, for me.” Reiko blushed at the mention of B’sur’s nickname for her, the one that immortalized her to generations of weyrbrats. “And for J’pei, I mean, he’s...you’re his mom, so. Um.”

J’pei reached out and took Ch’joh’s hand in his own. He didn’t even need to take a deep breath this time as he looked Reiko in the eyes, though he inhaled anyway seeing her delighted grin. “Mom, this is Ch’joh. I love him. And…”

Surugath trilled. J’pei rested his other hand on her head, his own smile growing to match Reiko’s.

“And we’ve got a story to tell you.”


End file.
